The supreme and the inhumane, the good and the bad, love and hate, creation and destruction, suffering and joy, etc. His boss rails at him. In the never-ending wars of the brown and white rats we see not a political critique, but a critique of politics. Those living in the underworld, tyrannized by absurd authority recover the condition of their lost humanity through words written by others. I own so many; too many. Every one here loves books. The answer was the one I feared. 
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And these lines so shocked me that I ran out to the air shaft and gazed up at my starry patch of firmament. Thanks for telling us about the problem. His philosophical heroes, instead, are Nietzsche and Schopenhauer.
Three youngsters in a corner are playing a guitar and singing quietly, everything that lives must have its enemy, the melancholy of a world eternally under self-rejuvenation, that beautiful Hellenic model and goal, classical gymnasia and humanist universities. A very, very entertaining read.
In the llud sovereign Czechoslovakia now Czech RepublicGypsies were once privileged citizens of country that took pride in their ethnic culture. Hraabal blissful quietness of having no regrets. Destroyer of the written word, he is also its perpetrator. I fantasise about giving them all away or creating a huge pyre and setting fire to it. Too Loud a Solitude is an excellent introduction to the author. The hydraulic press wants to read! But just as a beautiful fish will occasionally sparkle in the water of a polluted river that runs through a lpud 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 first sentence like a Homeric prophecy….
He has to have beer to read. Too Loud a Solitude. He rescues rare books, which he reads and hoards in his house. He is a man, a drunk you might say, who, for example, will sit dreaming at a bar and when he moves to open his wallet will fling upon the counter a mouse or let fall one from his trouser-leg.
The idea of books being compacted into bales and destroyed would once have seemed like an obvious comment on the totalitarian state. It may be too soon to tell.
Too Loud a Solitude by Bohumil Hrabal
May 30, Declan rated it it was amazing Shelves: La escritura sobre la tapa. As a character, he is the Hrabalian archetype, which is to say that he seems naive, perhaps at times even something of an idiot, but is, simultaneously, unassumingly, capable of great insight or displays of great intelligence.
I couldn't find a precise definition of the word, other than one who palavers, which is not helpful so I'll give it a go myself. The story solotude full of literary references, spliced in with Hanta's memories and astute observations. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up.
The world is filled with idiots and these very bohumi, carry the traits of idiocy into the core of the tomes that are brutally ripped apart as if confiscating a disagreeable existence of life. I wished more people will read his works. His mention, more than once, of the phrase "not until we're totally crushed do we show what we are made of" awakens the reader to the anguish in his "world of moral contradictions.
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.
Too Loud a Solitude
One does not get the impression that he has ambitions to be elevated above his current station; and yet books allow him to escape too. Why couldn't there be a hydraulic press to squeeze out one's own drippiness in?
I suspect he lived those intermediate years, drawing strength from the books he read and the imaginations he permitted; sprinkling his reading sessions with humor and surrealism and erecting insurmountable walls of perennial refuge. With each new compacter established, the fears of the collector becoming the collection burgeoned among heaps of wastepaper whilst mocking Brabal as Camus was shredded into white confetti.
David Auerbach About the author Send me an E-mail. I hear toilets flushing. The narrator is Hunta, a something everyman who greatly enjoys his beer.
If you started to think about people you met to describe them like that it is why I used to collect those. Not an efficient trait in either a librarian or a book compactor.
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