Total Fears takes the form of a series of letters to an American student before and during the Velvet Revolution of Czechoslovakia. It is equal parts a love story, a personal memoir, and aching commentary on the fears Hrabal felt during the Communist regime as both a writer suppressed by the regime and fueled by it. Hrabal, a man of afterthoughts, writes his letters much as he does in his other works, in streams of consciousness. He moves from one topic to the next and then beautifully intertwines them. Though this book does not follow a traditional plot, it is traditional Hrabal, and moves the reader to see the extraordinary in history, love, and the conflict every one of us faces inside. I was truly moved by the book. While I do not consider it to be at the level of Too Loud A Solitude, perhaps Hrabal's most successful work, it is one of the warmest books I have read in quite some time. I highly recommend it!

i stumbeled over this book in spring this year and i m still reading it (10 months!) though its not a very thick book. i read it very slowly that i can enjoy it for another while. its a wondrous book, very real very poetic far from kitch. i barely use the word beautiful, but in that case i may. besides, the cover is great art. i warmly recommend it.

do you remember, as a child, watching trains pass by? i'm guessing that you counted every car, reading the words on some; looking in the windows of others. this, to me, could stand as the definition for innocence and it feels as if the adult counter part of this process lies somewhere inside milos hrma, the narrator of hrabal's novella. milos is a young railroad apprentice who insulates himself against the reality of world war ii. he cowers when faced with authority and he fears that he is impotent. those fears are eventually silenced as he confronts a trainload of nazis and realizes the consequences of war. he lays bleeding and gripping the hand of a dead german soldier, who is both his victim and his murderer. hrabal has written an understated and poetic tale of german-occupied czechoslovakia that lives in your mind long after the eighty-five pages are read.

This is a tale about heroism of ordinary people, not about epic feats. You won't find here but common people, and that's what makes the tale so touching and realistic. The book is beautiful and is beautifully written, with a sober yet elegant and poetic style. The trains are an essential part of all the characters'lives in their jobs and their personal memories, and are related to the fight of Czechs partisans at the end of the II World War, which is the time the novel is placed. The novel is both dramatic and comic, and Hrabal's sense of humour is one of his most remarkable features, following the best tradition of Czech's Literature, particularly Jaroslav Hasek. The mixture of drama and comedy, as well as the human touch and tenderness which envelops the characters makes this novel very moving to every reader. This work is a little and brilliant jewel, definitely worth the trouble reading.

Bohumil Hrabal's novel (or novella, more precisely) Closely Watched Trains first hit the scene in 1965. It is the story of the curiously naive railwayman/kid Milos Hrma who overcomes his sexual impotence by succesfully consummating intercourse with an older woman. This intimate and seminal life event of Milos is beatifully and sensitively detailed amid occasional description of WWII, an event that was looming over Milos and his surroundings. This novella is a joy to read.

This book also contains the story "Cutting it Short" and has an introduction by Josef Skvorecky.

An engaging portrait of a small town in Bohemia in the period between world war I and II. "Cutting it Short" tells the story of Maryska, an irrepressible young woman who had the habit as a child of nearly drowning. "The Little Town Where Time Stood Still" focuses on Maryska's son as a young man who shares the same talent for stirring up trouble as his mother. Although it is not a major work, it is very satisfying to read and manages to be both moving and funny at the same time.

Helo, I am Hungarian (so Molnár is my family-name). Hungary is in Central Europe too, and we were also a "red" country. Hrabal, I think, is my favorite writer. Hrabal was in his twenties when ww2 ended, and the comunists take the power. His father lost his job, the life of the hole family changed. The harmonic times ended. Hrabal was a young lawyer in these times, but he had to work at the train, couse his father was is a "too high" position in time www2. He fall in a deep depression. This book is the third of his monographic trilogy. But it's not the same. in the first and second (sorry, i don't know their english titles)there is a harmonic life in a little village, but in the third everything fall into parts. I offer, if you haven't ever read any book by hrabal, read first the firts and second part os the trilogy.

This is a strange little book. I bought it without knowing anything about the author or his work, and enjoyed it very much on a superficial level. But I also know that I missed out on a lot in the book- nuances and references which I will probably never understand given that I am not Czech. This is a book I want to re-read soon, and I will do so thoroughly.

The narrator is a fascinating creation. He breezes through a strange life without being unduly affected by whatever fortunes or misfortunes life tosses at him, playing the hand that he is dealt. His adventures make for a good read, and unlike some other Czech novels I have read the book is quite simple, not a hard slog from cover to cover.

Sitting in a café in Prague with several Australians (who happened to be a part of a miserable bus tour of Europe I subjected myself to) and our Czech tour guide, who, out of the kindness of our heart, led us to an off-the-beaten path place where tourists were not as prevalent as in the rest of Prague, we discussed Czech literature, where he (I believe his name was Kaspar) definitively announced that Czech president Vaclav Havel is a miserably bad writer, Milan Kundera is brilliant but overrated nevertheless, and Americans are the most annoying people in the world because we call virtually complete strangers "friends" having only spoken with them for a matter of ten minutes, maybe about something as inane as weather. I asked him, "What is good to read then?" Which is when he told us about Bohumil Hrabal, and the most brilliant book he (Kaspar) had ever read, I Served the King of England. He tried to describe it, but found it impossible because it was too filled with highly nuanced and some very uniquely Czech things. He recommended it, although he qualified his recommendations with many disclaimers: I won't really understand its meaning and depth because I am American. No one but a Czech can understand the significance of this work. Also, while he was at it, he had to let me know that it is impossible as a foreigner to try to learn the Czech language because it is impossible. Expats try it all the time, he assured me, but it is impossible. No, Kaspar impatiently but proudly insists, it does not matter if you have a background in Slavic languages, Czech is unique and only Czechs will truly master it.

Be that as it may, I found a copy of I Served... in a bookshop in Iceland after the bus tour was over. There were not any English language copies to be found in Prague (then again, I only had a few days to check, and I was too busy having a whirlwind two-day affair with a man from Spain who spoke nary a word of English). Be sure, of course, that I would not be so presumptuous as to purchase a copy of this magnificent treasure of modern Czech literature in its native language because it is a language which would naturally only confound me. I am American, after all. I barely know English!

With this glowing recommendation and pile of books I procured for late night reading on a friend's floor (my makeshift bed) in Reykjavik, I read I Served the King of England in one night, and I loved it. It was, as Kaspar promised, a brilliant book. I loved the irreverent and direct style of Hrabal's writing. I suspect that you will too. It is not a book filled with intricacies nor plots and subplots and it is not clogged with millions of characters. It is a simple book, but in its simplicity transcends the need for a lot of extra "stuff". (There is that expected American eloquence again!) I can say that at the end of the book, the narrator is almost like a hermit, living with his dog. If I am not mistaken (it has been almost 2 years since I read the book) the dog actually goes out and gets supplies for the narrator. Eventually the townspeople miss the narrator so much that they go to extraordinary lengths to make him come out of hiding, even (sadly!) killing the narrator's beloved and necessary dog. Definitely read this book if you can find it.

I don't like words like 'masterpiece,' but there are books that I consider essential reading, books that allow you to connect to and unscramble the meaning of our troubled century. Bohumil Hrabal's I Served the King of England is one of those books and, in my humble opinion, it must be one of the great comic novels of the 20th century, along with The Good Soldier Schweik, The Tin Drum, The Master and Margarita and The Autumm of the Patriarch. It is like those comic novels, about the role of individuals in history, and like those novels, it sheds light on the meaning of life. Unlike those novels however, I Served the King of England has an almost minimalist plot, propelled by the ambition of the main character to become a millionaire. Hrabal does not uses modernist narrative techniques at all; instead his novel develops in a linear fashion as his main character moves from hotel to hotel as a waiter, furthering his ambition and learning from his bosses the art of running a hotel. In the process, the character even joins the nazis (and marries one), becomes a millionaire after the war and looses everything under communist rule. His adventures as a waiter in the hotels are told through a comic, highly visual style that reminded me of Chaplin's films, a feeling later confirmed by Hrabal himself when he compares the adventures of incarcerated millionaires during communism as the height of chaplinesque humor. Somewhere during the middle of the novel I became a little exasperated by the apparent lack of sophistication in the narrative, but the novel only 'appears' to be superficial. There is a big emotional and intellectual pay-off at the end, as the main character comes to terms with history and the value of his connection to humanity. As a reader, I felt privileged to have taken the journey this bawdy and wonderful novel put me through.

"For thirty-five years now I've been in wastepaper, and it's my love story." The narrator of Too Loud a Solitude expounds on his philosophy of life, of knowledge of books in this beautifully written and deeply rich and ironic book. He begins each chapter with a purposeful repetition, reminding us that he has been hard at work for 35 years, and this is his whole life. Although the book meanders without much plot, the metaphors put to work here are things of beauty, despite the fact that we are reading it in translation. "...When I read, I don't really read; I pop a beautiful sentence in my mouth and suck at it like a fruit drop..." The juxtaposition of art rotting among garbage is clear and prevalent throughout the book.

Hrabal's narrator spins brief vignettes about events in his life, "portrait of the artist as an old mushroom face", always coming back to the idea of heaven. "Neither the heavens are humane nor is life above or below-- or within me." Or, "The heavens are not humane, but I'd forgotten compassion and love." Or better still, as the narrator begins to feel the hopeless feeling of technology and progress encroaching on his insular world, as books were destroyed vigorously, indifferently, thoughtlessly, "The heavens may be far from humane, but I'd had about all I could take." The new automated hydraulic wastepaper compactors had filled him with a shock; there was nothing human left in their work. No one stopped to savor the content of the waste. He realized it was the death knell not only for smaller compactors but to his way of life.

He describes how he received his education from these books unwittingly over the 35 years he has worked in this job, committing what he calls "crimes against books". But it was in this way that he came to see the beauty of destruction.

"How much more beautiful it must have been in the days when the only place a thought could make its mark was the human brain and anybody wanting to squelch ideas had to compact human heads, but even that wouldn't have helped because real thoughts come from outside and travel with us like the noodle soup we take to work; in other words, INQUISITORS BURN BOOKS IN VAIN. If a book has anything to say, it burns with a quiet laugh..."

"It never ceased to amaze me, until suddenly one day I felt beautiful and holy for having had the courage to hold on to my sanity after all I'd seen and been through, body and soul, in too loud a solitude, and slowly I came to the realization that my work was hurtling me headlong into an infinite field of omnipotence."

I have just finished reading Bohumil Hrabal's Too Loud a Solitude and am reeling from its intoxicating effect. This book is not for everyone - there is no real "plot," and readers expecting a traditional narrative style will be bewildered and disappointed. But those readers who are sensitive to the beauty of language and wonderful thoughts will adore this book. It is pure poetry, lyricism, and philosophy. This is an incredible book, and I can't wait to read it again. And again, and again...

Simply brilliant! Hrabal's story is a stunning piece of work told through the eyes of one of the most interesting charactors in literature. I have read the short novel at least once a year for philosophic ispiration and to take joy in the love of books, like the main charactor. When I finish I am left in wonder at how the western world has overlooked Hrabal for so long. What a poetic and marvelous book!

A novel of one sentence, even a 20,000-word one? Although I can occasionally detect the sensibility that produced the masterpieces _I Served the King of England_ and _Closely Watched Trains_, I found this boring and a major rip-off. Perhaps if there had been some introduction I would feel less hostile.

Along with _Too Long a Solitude_ it shows that even a book too short to be a book can seem interminable.

This was a brief and unique book. I picked it up after reading I Served the King of England, and though I would not necessarily recommend this book, I thought its style was commendable. There were approximately 100 pages in this book, all rambling chatter without any stopping points or punctuation. If you can tolerate such a thing, go ahead and read it. Otherwise, well, pass it up.

Imagine you are a young girl and an old man is standing on a ladder by a tree and picking cherries. He starts telling you events from his and his ancestors lives, and he won't stop for the next 2 or 3 hours. (This is the time you will need to read that book.) It is incredible how he switches from one topic to the next in an unpredictable way, but nevertheless this book is a single speech. It is written in ONE sentence. OK, Hrabal uses question and exclamation marks from time to time, but these do not really end a sentence, no, it goes on and on... Hrabal shows, that he has learned from James Joyce, this book is very much influenced by Joyces' streams of consciousness, but it is much more easy to read because of the bizarre humour of this old man on the tree. Read this book, and teach your mind how to dance...