It’s time for that lovely, lovely biannual reading event organised by Simon from Stuck in a Book and Karen aka Kaggsy59. This time we are reading books from 1976. The 1970s is not my favourite decade, probably because I still vaguely remember it as a child, consider it my parents’ decade and find most of the fashion and music slightly embarrassing (with the exception of David Bowie, of course).
I only have time to review one book, and it’s a slim one, but a real masterpiece: Bohumil Hrabal’s Too Loud a Solitude (transl. Michael Henry Heim). I have read other books by Hrabal, but never this one (maybe it was censored when I was young – it was certainly only available in 1976 via samizdat publishing in Czechoslovakia and other East Bloc countries).
The first-person narrator is Haňťa, a bit of a recluse, who has been compacting wastepaper and books for thirty five years (as he reminds us at the start of each chapter). He saves the books that catch his eye (some of them banned, some of them simply unwanted or full of errors) and his head is full of quotations and random bits of knowledge. Nothing much happens in the book, other than us witnessing his thought processes, but he remembers some poignant and often embarrassing moments in his life – faeces come up with startling frequency – and he begins to realise that he will be replaced by far more efficient, gigantic automatic press.
It’s really hard to review or describe this book, other than just give quote after quote, for this is without a doubt a very quotable book, especially for lovers of philosophy and literature. Haňťa is treated almost like an idiot by his boss, yet he has an encyclopedic knowledge and a genuine love for the written word and for learning.
Because when I read, I don’t really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel.
…when I start reading I’m somewhere completely different, I’m in the text, it’s amazing, I have to admit I’ve been dreaming, dreaming in a land of great beauty, I’ve been in the very heart of truth.
Although Hrabal is not overtly political in this book, there are plenty of political allusions, which were clearly perceived as such by the authorities, hence the publishing interdiction. But it’s all described in that slanted, metaphorical way that is so typical of literature written under dictatorships. Much of the action takes place in cellars, underground, there is a lot of dirt and danger, there is even sacrifice, for example the small mice that regularly get compacted together with the paper. But there is also indifference to that sacrifice. The author repeatedly refers to the sewers of Prague, the scene of a senseless war between two armies of rats. He often shows university-educated men who are doing back-breaking manual labour, even refers to them as ‘Prague’s fallen angels… who have lost a battle they never fought’ (although some of them of course did try to fight a battle in 1968). There are more overt statements such as ‘somebody had to decide that the book was unfit to read, and somebody had to order it pulped’. The narrator looks at the ‘new men’ with dismay: they represent the Communist ideal, nicely tanned, working tirelessly, guzzling down their milk or soft drinks uncomplainingly, completely indifferent to what they are pulping:
… not at all upset at the thought of going to Hellas knowing next to nothing about Aristotle, or Plato… They just went on working, pulling covers off books and tossing the bristling, horrified pages on the conveyor belt with the utmost calm and indifference, with no feeling for what the book might mean…
The book has a dreamy quality, and is much more serious than Closely Observed/ Watched Trains, but here too we find some farcical moments, such as Manca, the girl that the narrator falls in love with, who twice has shit-filled mishaps that are profoundly traumatic for her. There is a third incident involving dog turd, but this one turns completely surreal, because Haňťa later sees a man at a flea market trying to sell a sandal and purple sock for the right foot, which he suspects might be his.
I stood there dumbfounded at that man’s faith, faith that a right-legged uniped in search of sandal and purple sock would happen by, that somewhere there was a cripple, size nine and a half, determined to make the journey to Stetin to buy a sock -and-sandal combination guaranteed to make him handsome. Beyond that man of great faith stood only an old woman selling two bay leaves, which she held up between two fingers.
This passage really struck me, because it reminded me of that sad, frenetic period in the early to mid 1990s in Russia, when people were selling anything and everything from their house out on the streets, desperate to survive.
In summary, a book that contains so many layers that I will no doubt have to reread it several times to uncover all of its nuances. I was also pondering why I found it so much easier to read and engage with than Piranesi, which is similarly about a lonely man living a confined existence and which also takes place mostly in someone’s head.
24 thoughts on “#1976Club: Too Loud a Solitude”
Brilliant review. I’d so love to read this one.
I think you’d like it. Zany but profoundly moving.
Great review Marina Sofia! This is definitely on my list now – that quote about reading is stunning.
I have read this as well (and Stu!) – probably Hrabal’s best novel. The ending is so sad!
All the more poignant when you know how Hrabal himself died…
Just enough to be intriguing! I am not familiar with this author so appreciate the review.
It’s astonishing how many excellent Czech writers there are. Must be something in the waters of the Vltava! 😉
Great post, Marina, and I do think you’re right about the need to re-read – I’ve only read two of his books, and those only once, and I’m sure I didn’t appreciate all the layers.
Yes, I want to read more, as well as again, although I think only 1-2 more have been translated into English.
There’s actually loads translated into English – including new translations of The Little Town Where Time Stood Still and Cutting it Short from Penguin (one book in the original translation) and All My Cats, Mr Kafka from Vintage, Harlequin’s Millions from Archipelago, and a number from university presses (at least another seven). Plenty to look forward to!
Good to know! Maybe just not easily available in UK but I will do some more digging…
I’ve read it in French but I certainly remember the part about the fruit drop-nature of sentences. I agree it’s an eminently quotable book, and a multi-layered one too. I myself read it at least twice before I embarked on writing a review (I checked and I did also quote the fruit drop/bonbon). Nonetheless I’d forgotten about the sandal-and-sock episode; instead, I remember the uncle and his mania for trains. I really should read more Hrabal!
Me too! I was a huge Ivan Klima, Havel and Milan Kundera fan when I was younget but somehow didn’t realise so much of Hrabal was available in translation.
I love that quote about reading, too! I’ve been reading Hrabal lately and the title you’re talking about hadn’t intrigued me as much as some of his other books. I love autobiographical fiction, so fell in love with The Little Town Where Time Stood Still and Cutting It Short — the latter one seems to be an imagining of his mother’s life in the years before he was born, which I found to a brilliant and inspiring leap. Have others — Closely Watched Trains, The Gentle Barbarian, Dancing Lessons for the Advanced in Age (a book that consists of one very long sentence!) — on the TBR pile on my desk. Also just read the first short story, Mr. Kafka, in the eponymous collection. It was wonderful too!
Thanks for sharing this title — it’s calling to me now!
I really want to read more by him and had no idea so much was available in translation (do your homework, Marina!). I only managed to find this and Clisely Observed Trains secondhand.
I loved this book too and can imagine it must have been difficult to choose what to use as quotes. I’d end up using a forest of post-its to mark all the wonderful bits. It’s been so long since last read and is definitely one I’d like to pick up again.
I did use a forest of little post-its! How did you guess? 🤣🤣
This, from your description, sounds absolutely fascinating and worth investigating.
Interesting comment about Piranesi, my impression is that his world lacked so much, it was so minimalist that it was almost empty and the one other human being didn’t exactly inspire him. Haňťa has memory and a much richer environment even if he is not actively engaging with it. I think that Piranesi evokes that feeling of complete solitude and absence, where there literally is nothing but walls, statues and tides, an absence of connection, of stimulation, just a little understood void. Not a place most humans would wish to dwell, as we discover having been sentenced to stay home for so long.
Very true. And I am naturally attracted to Hanta’s richness of experience from reading and memory, while the other environment felt sterile to me.
Interesting! Thanks for adding it to the club – quite a popular choice. Sounds like this one will dwell with the reader for a while.