[In the following review, Berens provides a positive assessment of Too Loud a Solitude, noting its sophisticated and thought-provoking narrative.]

Short, sharp and eccentric, this novel [Too Loud a Solitude], written as a monologue, reconfirms Bohumil Hrabal's reputation. The hapless and slightly ludicrous Hant'a has spent 35 years in a dingy Prague basement compacting paper, as we are told at the start of every chapter. He has, by his own admission, unwittingly absorbed the literature that he has saved from the grasp of his hydraulic press. Books are rescued, savoured and stored in his attic where he goes to relish a beautiful sentence, sipping it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in him like alcohol.

The prose darts chaotically from Hant'a's past memories to his romantic hopes and escapist dreams. Like Walter Mitty and J. Alfred Prufrock, Hant'a is a ridiculous and antisocial character obsessed by his imaginary self-importance. Prone to believing that the classics of philosophy and literature were written for his benefit alone, Hant'a envelops himself in his world of books. Whether it is among the philosophers or the saints, through these reveries Hant'a escapes his own banal existence. He becomes so absorbed that the reader is often unsure whether his musings are memories or fabrications.

The rhapsodies are starkly contrasted with the sordid reality of his pitiful life. Poetic description is cut short with crudity. When not engrossed in his world of books and daydreams, Hant'a escapes into an alcoholic haze and memories of his gypsy lover whose name he cannot remember.

Books, not people, are his life. He sees his work as an art form which is threatened by the police state imposed by the Communist régime. The bleak destruction of the all-consuming modern machines leaves no room for discernment. The young workers operate the machines with a calm indifference and no feeling of loss which Hant'a finds terrifying. This new generation, which compacts virgin books without a thought, is likened to children disembowelling a chicken. Such lurid metaphors magnify the underlying and thoroughly disturbing issue of Communist suppression of literature. Hrabal remains optimistic in his conviction that the written word is indestructible, as even a loser like Hant'a has, by osmosis, gained an unwitting education.

The advent of the new era brings with it the crushing of Hant'a's purpose in life, along with the millions of books. He loses his job and with it his sense of power, having earlier declared that one needed a divinity degree to do a job like his. But, as he continually points out, the heavens are not humane.

While Hrabal gently ridicules the wretched Hant'a, the shadow of larger issues permeates the subtext, yet the tone remains light-hearted. Michael Henry Heim, as with his excellent translations of Milan Kundera, skilfully balances his prose to convey Hant'a's undisciplined and haphazard, meandering thoughts. Kundera himself considers Hrabal to be one of Czechoslovakia's very best writers, and from this sophisticated, thought-provoking and pithy narrative we can clearly see why.