Too Loud a Solitude (Paperback)

~ (Author) "For thirty-five years now I've been in wastepaper, and it's my love story..." (more)
Key Phrases: gigantic press, starry firmament, signal tower, Charles Square, Brigade of Socialist Labor, Frantik Sturm (more...)

Editorial Reviews

From Publishers Weekly

Czechoslovakian author Hrabal ( I Served the King of England ) pens an absorbing fable about a man who educates himself with the discarded printed matter he collects.

Copyright 1992 Cahners Business Information, Inc.

From Library Journal

In this novella, written in 1976, narrator and authorial alter ego Hanta meditates on the 35 years he has spent at a hydraulic press in a dark cellar, compacting waste paper and books proscribed by various regimes. Though he no longer weeps or protests when rare treasures appear in his press, the books that he must destroy become his whole life, his only companions. When he is to be replaced by young workers with a more productive machine, Hanta dreams of a gigantic press that destroys not only himself but the entire city, with its traditions and culture. Written by a leading Czech writer (I Served the King of England, LJ 4/1/89), this affecting metaphor expressing fear for Central European culture belongs in libraries collecting European fiction.
- Marie Bednar, Pennsylvania State Univ. Libs., University Park
Copyright 1990 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

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Product Details

• Paperback: 112 pages
• Publisher: Harvest Books (April 27, 1992)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 0156904586
• ISBN-13: 978-0156904582
• Product Dimensions: 7.9 x 5.3 x 0.3 inches
• Shipping Weight: 4.6 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
• Average Customer Review: 4.5 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (31 customer reviews)
• Amazon.com Sales Rank: #273,324 in Books (See Bestsellers in Books)

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

23 of 27 people found the following review helpful:

5.0 out of 5 stars Chronicle of a Life and a Death Foretold, June 24, 2004

By	Leonard Fleisig "Len" (Washington, D.C.) - See all my reviews (TOP 500 REVIEWER)    (REAL NAME)

"For thirty-five years now I've been in wastepaper, and it's my love story." So begins Bohumil Hrabal's Too Loud Solitude. The narrator, Hantá, has worked as a trash compactor his entire adult life and his job centers on creating machine compressed bales of waste paper. The most depressing aspect of his job is the fact that a core part of the waste left for compacting consists of books, hundred and thousands of books no longer wanted or desired by the then current political regime. Hrabal's novella explores in its own unique way the life and after-life of books and knowledge.

At first glance, Hantá comes across as an unwashed, miserably drunk, under-educated worker. However, from the outset it becomes clear that the books condemned to destruction by Hantá have left an indelible imprint in his own soul. Hantá notes that his "education has been so unwitting I can't quite tell which of my thoughts come from me and which from my books." He notes that he doesn't really read, rather, he will "pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop." As the story progresses Haòtá thoughts are sprinkled with thoughts and quotations from the Talmud, Kant, Erasmus and all the great thinkers of the ages.

Hantá cannot destroy all the books submitted to him for destruction. Rather, he has spent thirty-five years sneaking books out in his briefcase, one or two at a time. His modest house is overrun with books and Haòtá notes that too loud a sneeze could condemn him to death if the books towering over his bed collapse upon him. Despite the despair caused by the nature of his work and his being lost in too loud a solitude, Hantá continues to live for his books. At the end of his work day he makes his way home "yet smiling, because my briefcase is full of books and that very night I expect them to tell me things about myself I don't know."

Hantá's life though is beset with woe. His boss looks down upon him on account of his slovenly and drunken appearance and his work has been made obsolete by a new compacting machine on the other side of town. Hantá makes a trip to view the new compacting factory and upon his return to his own decrepit surroundings engages in a futile fury of compacting in a manner reminiscent of John Henry and his hammer.

Hantá is also wracked by guilt at the destruction of thousands of books. He hears the crunch of human skeletons whenever his hydraulic press crushes beautiful books with astonishing force. At the end of the day, Haòtá attempts to relieve himself of his guilt by dint of the Talmudic saying "For we are like olives: only when we are crushed do we yield what is best in us." Hantá clearly wants to believe that he is simply releasing what is best in the books he must crush.

The tone for the book's conclusion is established by reference to this crushing of olives. Hantá's internal monologue reveals his awareness that he has consumed the contents of thousands of books. He is aware that he cannot write words that can express adequately all that he has learned. He is wistful at the thought that being crushed may be the best or only way to yield what is the best in him. Consequently, the physical contents of Hantá's last bale of waste should come as no surprise as the narrative ends.

Too Loud a Solitude does chronicle a life and a death foretold. Hrabal, despite obtaining a degree in law from Prague's Charles University was forced to work as a manual laborer in the 1950s. This included a stint as a waste compactor. In 1997, beset with ill-health, Hrabal fell or flew out of his fifth floor hospital room and plunged to his death. Some have argued that he slipped while feeding some pigeons. (Defenestration, whether self-inflicted or not, has played an important role in Czech and Bohemian history from 1419 through the death of Jan Masaryk in 1948). Having read Too Loud a Solitude one can only think that perhaps Hrabal, at the end of his life felt it was time to yield to the world all that was best in him once in a manner that would resonate for him and with his native readers.

Too Loud a Solitude is a beautiful, thoughtful piece of work that should be appreciated by anyone that loves the written word. By making us and Hantá wince at the destruction of the written word the beauty and importance of those words are heightened for all of us.

19 of 22 people found the following review helpful:

5.0 out of 5 stars a magical gem of a book, March 11, 1999

By A Customer

I have just finished reading Bohumil Hrabal's Too Loud a Solitude and am reeling from its intoxicating effect. This book is not for everyone - there is no real "plot," and readers expecting a traditional narrative style will be bewildered and disappointed. But those readers who are sensitive to the beauty of language and wonderful thoughts will adore this book. It is pure poetry, lyricism, and philosophy. This is an incredible book, and I can't wait to read it again. And again, and again...

13 of 15 people found the following review helpful:

4.0 out of 5 stars It is from books I've learned the heavens are not humane, February 4, 2003

By	EriKa "E" (Iceland) - See all my reviews (TOP 1000 REVIEWER)

"For thirty-five years now I've been in wastepaper, and it's my love story." The narrator of Too Loud a Solitude expounds on his philosophy of life, of knowledge of books in this beautifully written and deeply rich and ironic book. He begins each chapter with a purposeful repetition, reminding us that he has been hard at work for 35 years, and this is his whole life. Although the book meanders without much plot, the metaphors put to work here are things of beauty, despite the fact that we are reading it in translation. "...When I read, I don't really read; I pop a beautiful sentence in my mouth and suck at it like a fruit drop..." The juxtaposition of art rotting among garbage is clear and prevalent throughout the book.

Hrabal's narrator spins brief vignettes about events in his life, "portrait of the artist as an old mushroom face", always coming back to the idea of heaven. "Neither the heavens are humane nor is life above or below-- or within me." Or, "The heavens are not humane, but I'd forgotten compassion and love." Or better still, as the narrator begins to feel the hopeless feeling of technology and progress encroaching on his insular world, as books were destroyed vigorously, indifferently, thoughtlessly, "The heavens may be far from humane, but I'd had about all I could take." The new automated hydraulic wastepaper compactors had filled him with a shock; there was nothing human left in their work. No one stopped to savor the content of the waste. He realized it was the death knell not only for smaller compactors but to his way of life.

He describes how he received his education from these books unwittingly over the 35 years he has worked in this job, committing what he calls "crimes against books". But it was in this way that he came to see the beauty of destruction.

"How much more beautiful it must have been in the days when the only place a thought could make its mark was the human brain and anybody wanting to squelch ideas had to compact human heads, but even that wouldn't have helped because real thoughts come from outside and travel with us like the noodle soup we take to work; in other words, INQUISITORS BURN BOOKS IN VAIN. If a book has anything to say, it burns with a quiet laugh..."

"It never ceased to amaze me, until suddenly one day I felt beautiful and holy for having had the courage to hold on to my sanity after all I'd seen and been through, body and soul, in too loud a solitude, and slowly I came to the realization that my work was hurtling me headlong into an infinite field of omnipotence."