Point About Books Too Loud a Solitude

Title	:	Too Loud a Solitude
Author	:	Bohumil Hrabal
Book Format	:	Paperback
Book Edition	:	Anniversary Edition
Pages	:	Pages: 98 pages
Published	:	August 1st 2007 by Abacus (first published 1976)
Categories	:	Fiction. European Literature. Czech Literature. Novels. Literature. Classics. Writing. Books About Books

Too Loud a Solitude Paperback | Pages: 98 pages

Commentary In Favor Of Books Too Loud a Solitude

TOO LOUD A SOLITUDE is a tender and funny story of Haňťa - a man who has lived in a Czech police state - for 35 years, working as compactor of wastepaper and books. In the process of compacting, he has acquired an education so unwitting he can't quite tell which of his thoughts are his own and which come from his books. He has rescued many from jaws of hydraulic press and now his house is filled to the rooftops. Destroyer of the written word, he is also its perpetrator.

But when a new automatic press makes his job redundant there's only one thing he can do - go down with his ship.

This is an eccentric romp celebrating the indestructability- against censorship, political opression etc - of the written word.

Present Books During Too Loud a Solitude

Original Title:	Příliš hlučná samota
ISBN:	0349102627 (ISBN13: 9780349102627)
Edition Language:	English
Characters:	Haňťa
Setting:	Prague (Praha)(Czech Republic)

Rating About Books Too Loud a Solitude

Ratings: 4.06 From 14492 Users | 1654 Reviews

Commentary About Books Too Loud a Solitude

This is a few weeks in the mind and life of Hanta, in mid 1970s Prague, who has been drunkenly compacting wastepaper in a hydraulic press for 35 years, in a dark cellar infested with mice, flies, blood, and sometimes shit.Well, it is that. But it absolutely is not that at all. Every beloved object is the center of a garden of paradise.This is a beautiful paean to the transformative power of words on paper. About finding beauty in the dirtiest, most unlikely places.How devotion can manifest

I had been meaning to read Hrabal's classic novella for quite a while, but last night I finally picked it up. Instantly, I was transported to the world of Hantá in a crumbling Communist Prague. Hrabal combines lyrical descriptions of the pleasures - and the necessity - of reading, with surreal passages revealing Hantá's tangible interactions with the figures in his books, in a world where reading and intellectual and creative engagement are no longer valued. It is a stunningly written, very

I first heard about this book when I listened to episode 185 of the Book Fight Podcast, where they discussed the book Closely Watched Trains. While describing the background and context of that novel, they mentioned this one in passing, and it sounded right up my alley.The central character of Hanta works as a trash compactor in the years immediately following the defeat of the Nazis in World War II. He also rescues books from his workplace and has been hoarding and stacking endless books on

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more...." (Apologies to W.S.)-But just as a beautiful fish will occasionally sparkle in the water of a polluted river that runs through a stretch of factories, so in the flow of old paper the spine of a rare book will occasionally shine forth, and if for a moment I turn away, dazzled, I always turn back in time to rescue it, and after wiping it off on my apron, opening it wide, and breathing in its print, I glue my eyes to the text and read the

Not until we're totally crushed do we show what we are made of. (96)This is a book whose length can be quite deceiving. Nonetheless, this novella has the predictable ability of leading the path towards something rather extraordinary: a bibliophile's sanctuary.This was a difficult book to rate. At first, it was a solid four-star book. But I chose to overlook the few passages that did not captivate me entirely and made me feel somewhat lost at times (yes, the more I think about it, the more I

Is there anything more beautiful than a book about love for books?

This is not a love story. It was once, but my relationship with books has soured. Reading is, these days, like swallowing a cheap broth, one that contains the occasional scrap of meat, but which is, for the most part, thin, watery and bitter. Yet as a child I would avoid school and every day take myself to the local library. I would stand before the shelves in awe, almost afraid to touch, as I was so unused to things offering themselves to me. The rows seemed endless, unconquerable; and yet I