[In the following review, Bradbrook comments favorably on Listopadový uragán—Hrabal's account of the 1989 Velvet Revolution in Czechoslovakia—and praises Hrabal's short story collection The Death of Mr. Baltisberger for rejuvenating the beer-house genre.]

Hurricanes are rare in Central Europe, but political events do sweep the region like those merciless storms. Having in mind the “December hurricane,” an 1897 Jewish pogrom in Prague, Bohumil Hrabal uses the title November Hurricane for his latest publication [Listopadový uragán], written during and referring to the events of 1989 in his native Czecho-Slovakia. It was on 17 November of that year when a “hurricane” in the form—paradoxically enough—of the “velvet revolution” caused the communist regime to crumble, but the change of political climate had already been felt earlier. Hrabal's collection of ten pieces records the atmosphere very subtly.

The opening selection, “The Magic Flute,” sets the tone with a kind of memoir in which the author tries to find his soul, his place as both a writer and a human being, in the changing society. In his self-examination he sounds apologetic in justifying his refusal to join the dissidents in spite of his sympathy with them, particularly with their leader Vaclav Havel. In the second piece Hrabal seems to be experimenting with the epistolary form: an imaginary female narrator-recorder addresses the author himself, but eight letters are directed to Hrabal's American friend April Clifford. His tender feelings for this young California Slavist serve as a thread that leads him to a lecture tour of American universities—including Stanford, where Clifford works—and sparks vivid descriptions of his strong impressions from this world, so new to him. He tells her all sorts of other things as well: about himself and his work; about numerous Czech exiles in North America; about Havel, Dubcek, and Mohorita; about his drinking companions; and about literature and art. He adds a gentle touch by writing with great affection about his many cats. His narrative proves fascinating; it is amusing and witty but also very personal in its sincerely expressed doubts, guilt, and pain as the muddled world affects him.

Hrabal's American experience contrasts sharply with life and events at home. Beer flows here too, although much less than in earlier works, and it is now drunk with greater serenity. One can also recognize the author's typical style in the protracted, often anacoluthic sentences, which in no way impede his fluent narrative stream. In all, November Hurricane is an interesting and pleasant personal chronicle of 1989 by a gifted writer of great experience.

The Death of Mr Baltisberger, a collection of fourteen short stories, shows Hrabal as the true pupil of Jaroslav Hasek in the art of the beerhouse tale, but a pupil who has also advanced and rejuvenated the genre through experimentation and innovation. Typically, beer flows freely in many of the stories, and mugs swish along the countertop as the skillful barmaid slides them expertly into customers' hands. And of course people tell tales, tall ones and often absurd, but that is precisely the idea: the spoiled reader must be shocked by the unexpected if his interest is to last. He will be amply rewarded if he reads on, for he will get many more than just fourteen stories, often finding several intertwined within a single selection as the characters compete in recounting their respective tales. In the title story the excited, yarn-spinning raconteurs who come from great distances to applaud Mr. Baltisberger in the running of the Brno Grand Prix miss the tragedy of his death altogether. In “Diamond Eye” the absurd and the comic combine in a policeman's gratitude toward his assailant: “You see, before Papa hit him, his nose had been bent over to the right. And Papa's punch straightened it so nicely that the daughter of a rich farmer fell in love with him and they got married.”

Hrabal's characters are very ordinary people, mostly just casual acquaintances. Baltisberger was apparently a real-life race driver killed in the Grand Prix, however, and Uncle Pepin in the same story was evidently modeled on the author's own uncle. Throughout the collection Hrabal comes across as a great raconteur with an amazing imagination and a gift for creating unexpected images: “His eyes were rimmed with red, like a telegram form”; “The young man was as deeply immersed in himself as a collapsible sewing machine.” Combined with his earthy humor and the grotesque or absurd situations in which he often places his characters, this quality makes the stories eminently readable.