The Little Town Where Time Stood Still by Bohumil Hrabal

The Little Town Where Time Stood Still Reviews

• 
  Jim Fonseca

  Two connected novellas (or two short novels really, about 150 pages each) by A Czechoslovakian author whom Milan Kundera called “Czechoslovakia’s greatest living writer.” They both feature everyday life in a small Czech town and give their stories with a lot of humor and a bit of fantasy.
  
  It’s amazing to me that although the two novels take us from pre-World War II through the Soviet occupation of the country after the war, the war is hardly mentioned, even though Czechoslovakia was in the thick of it. No invasions, no stories of young men going off to war or returning without limbs, no sounds of close or distant gunfire. Only in the second novel do we hear of a German officer stationed in the village but that’s it.
  
  
  
  The first novel focuses on the wife of the manager of the town’s beer brewery. She a woman ahead of her time: bold, brash, adventuresome. It’s 1930’s Europe and horse-drawn wagons are still around. She is known for her knee-length blonde hair. She has no children (yet) and she does not need to work outside the home, so she hangs out with the men in the brewery, drinking beer with them on their breaks; she climbs the brewery’s chimney and gets the firemen to come to rescue her; she turns a sausage-making event into a blood-smearing contest.
  
  She gets away with all this because her husband adores her. Eventually she cuts her hair short (the title); cuts her dog’s tail off; cuts her skirts to reveal her knees and goes bicycling through town giving the sedate townsfolk something shocking to remember. Opposites attract, so of course, her husband believes in order, regularity, repetition, predictability, etc. They genuinely love each other.
  
  Her husband’s brother comes to live with them. The manager brother gives him a job as a laborer at the brewery. He romps with the town prostitutes and ratchets up the humor a couple of notches.
  
  Here’s a sample of the writing style with almost no dialog, and with long paragraphs with long run-on sentences. I really enjoyed his writing and I’m reminded about another book I reviewed recently, Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schultz, where I said it was amazing how Schultz’s writing can keep you interested while he writes pages about crumpled bedclothes. In this case (Hrabal’s book I am reviewing now) the author begins the story with several pages about how the woman looks forward to the light from the kerosene lamps when the brewery’s electric generator shuts down at the end of the workday. The sample below also illustrates the main topic of everyday life in the town:
  
  “I glanced at my watch, it was time for Bod’a Cervinka to have finished his little round. No doubt he got his vegetables today for a good price, and overjoyed by his bargain he’ll have stopped first on the square at Svoboda’s, where he’ll have had a couple of gills of vermouth and fifty grams of Hungarian salami, then he’ll have stopped at the Grand, where he’s sure to have had one small goulash and three Pilsners, then, to start bringing his little round to its conclusion, he will have stopped at the Mikolaska drugstore, where, lingering in friendly conversation, he’ll have drunk three glasses of brandy. It’s also possible, however, that Bod’a was so overjoyed at saving two crowns on his bargain purchase of vegetables, that he went on to complete his so-called big round, that is to say, stopping at the Hotel Na Knizeci as well, for a black coffee with Original Jamaican rum, and finally dropping in for a quick one at the special bar of Louis Wantoch and Co., where he had a little noggin of kirsch as a final full stop to his celebration of such a cheap purchase of cauliflower and vegetables for his soup.”
  
  
  
  The second novel of the book’s title changes perspective. It’s several years later. The woman and her husband have had a son and we now see things from the viewpoint of an 8- or 10-year old boy. He hangs out with his crazy uncle who takes him on his rounds to the dives where all the women fuss over the boy. The uncle has a hostile relationship with the German officer stationed in town. They trade insults in the bars and the prostitutes try to smooth things over when the drunk uncle goes too far. To be honest, the Uncle’s bar jokes, all with sexual innuendo, get a bit repetitive at times.
  
  Only in the last 30 pages or so of the second novel do we see why the author got in trouble with the communist authorities. They banned his work and copies of his work could only be passed hand-to-hand as a surreptitious ‘samizdat.’ In this section he talks about how the communist takeover destroyed the town’s life. The brewery managed was fired by the workers who elected their own supervisor. The manager was told “You were decent to us, and that has to count against you, because it meant that you blunted the edge of the class struggle, do you see?” He and his wife are shunned by the townspeople. He starts a trucking company with his brother that turns into a Three Stooges affair. All the traditional community activities died off: church processions and festivals, annual fairs, nature outings sponsored by political parties, village horse-rides for the kids, the annual masquerade ball, the town orchestra and choir, summer athletic contest for kids, and so on.
  
  I enjoyed the two stories and consider them good reads despite dragging a bit here and there.
  
  The author (1914 – 1997) wrote 20 or so novels, about half of which have been translated into English. He’s best known for the ones titled Too Loud a Solitude and Closely Watched Trains; the latter was made into a movie. Wikipedia has an interesting piece on his death that I shortened here:
  
  
  
  Hrabal died in 1997 after falling from a window on the fifth floor of a hospital in Prague, attempting to feed pigeons. It was noted, however, that suicides were mentioned in several of his books, and early in the morning on the day of his death he mentioned an "invitation" he received in his dream from a dead poet, who was buried in the cemetery next to hospital. His doctor had no doubts about his death being a suicide. According to his wishes, he was buried in an oak coffin marked with the inscription [Polná Brewery], the brewery where his mother and stepfather had met.
  
  Top photo of Wenceslas Square in Prague from calvertjournal.com
  A Czech youth sports organization from
  dw.com/en/czech-sports
  The author from rfel.org
  
  
  
  
• 
  Tony

  There are chapters texturally without breaks, and run-on sentences, and shifting points of view and digressions; which I do not offer as a complaint, but maybe as an excuse should this review appear choppy. There are two novellas in this edition, and they certainly go together as they are drawn in the same sleepy town with the same cast of characters and the second one picks up eight years after the first one ends.
  
  CUTTING IT SHORT
  
  I had just read
  Madame Bovary and the epigram at the front of this book is : La Bovary, c'est moi - GUSTAVE FLAUBERT. And, the condensed What'sItAbout on the back cover of the book says that Maryśka, the narrator, is a Madame Bovary without apologies driven to keep up with the new fast-paced mechanized modern world that is obliterating whatever sleepy pieties are left over from the defunct Austro-Hungarian Empire. And those that write squibs for the back of books are at least as smart as those who run the government.
  
  So I'm probably wrong, but I didn't get the comparison. Emma is an adulteress, but cold-blooded and calculating. Maryśka is probably not an adulteress, but a spontaneous, hot-blooded flirt. Both women are married to respected, professional husbands. But Emma's Charles, a doctor, is a clueless cuckold. Francin, a brewery manager, sees Maryśka 'making sausages' with the butcher and then husking corn in the fall - and there again, a decent woman just doesn't scrub corn on the cob quite like that, and if she does, well not with such a great laughter and flaming eyes as mine, if some male stranger were to see this, he might see in my hands scrubbing that corn on the cob some sort of sign favourable to his hankerings - and, there being nothing he could do to stop such a spirit, he would take a sledge and demolish a shed. He demolished a lot of sheds.
  
  The original title of this novella, in Czech, was Postřižiny, which the nyrb Introduction teaches is "a word referring to the Slavic and also Jewish tradition of ritualizing a child's first haircut." I like that better. But there are lots of things cut short here: a dog's tail; table legs; Mrs. Krásenka's nose; and, yes, eventually Maryśka's hair. Maryśka had very long hair, to her feet I think. And, now that I bring it up, Hrabal uses Maryśka's hair as a character much as Flaubert used Emma's skirt. No one loved Maryśka's hair as much as Francin, even if we know it's all symbolism for the old ways and the advance of modernity.
  
  Apparently there was a 1980 movie based on this novella. I hadn't seen it. Here's a link, of a 2 minute and 11 second clip from it; but let me forewarn that there is a spanking scene within that may seem abusive:
  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5E7Oz.... I offer this so you can get some sense of the bawdiness of the story, but also for another reason for those that have read and re-read
  Madame Bovary and know the minutiae so well. Look again at this brief clip. Watch when the camera takes a long shot of the square. Then ask yourself, if this isn't like Madame Bovary, then what the hell is Hippolyte doing there?
  
  THE LITTLE TOWN WHERE TIME STOOD STILL
  
  The story continues, eight years later, but the narrator has changed. Now the son of Maryśka and Francin tells the story, beginning with an opening vignette about how he got a tattoo on his chest but (you can see it coming) not the one he paid for. He recedes as a character after that and there's less of Maryśka, sadly; although he says: I wanted my mum to be just like the other boys' mums, motherly, maternal, but my mum was still a young lady . . . This after a rather public display of dancing that led Francin to say: a decent woman oughtn't to dance in such positions .
  . .
  
  The focus turns more to Francin, and his brother 'Uncle Pepin'. For you can not have a novel of digressions except that you have an uncle in it, right Toby?
  
  A different kind of modernity comes to town, Communism taking over the brewery. Francin, who has always been a kind boss, does not understand why he must be terminated. The workers explain the irony: because he was always so kind, it took them longer to take over the brewery.
  
  Dad's lamentation rose to heaven, but I knew that the Lord God didn't actually love the truth so much, in fact he loved madmen, crazy exalted enthusiasts, people like my Uncle Pepin, the Lord God loved to hear untruth reiterated in faith, he adored the exalted lie more than the dry unadorned truth . . .
  
  So, you know, maybe there's still relevance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
• 
  Ray

  This book comprises two linked novellas. They deal with life in a small town in interwar Czechoslovakia and the immediate aftermath of the Soviet takeover.
  
  I like the warmth the writer has for the characters and the period - a world that is now irrecovably lost and a country that no longer exists. There are ominous undertones and the threat of danger during the German occupation and then the Soviet "liberation", but the overarching theme is that people make their accommodation with the powers that be and move on with the ebb and flow of their lives. So it goes.
  
  The writing is a mix of sleepy hicksville interspersed with moments of slapstick and surreal joy - there is one episode about a chap running down the street with his purple painted genitals on display that makes me laugh even as I write about it.
  
  Well worth a read
• 
  Aravindakshan Narasimhan

  
  
  This book has two novellas, I think "linked" together - Cutting it short and The little town where time stood still. Set in a rural town in Czechoslovakia, it captures the town during the interwar years, war times and immediate aftermath of World war 2.
  
  The first novella is called Cutting it short, in which we get to see Bohumil Hrabal's mother's perspective of the world. How far this was fictionalized or how true these are, I don't know. In fact, Hrabal wanted to write this, feeling that, if he doesn't tell what he had told in the book no one would know how the times were then, and he considers his father and brother as the main characters of the work.
  
  There is a reference to Madame Bovary in the beginning of the first novella, now, I haven't read Flaubert's work, but Mary the mother of Hrabal, at best, only indulges in flirting, that too only once. May be, Hrabal being a son one should be, never got to show anything that can be described as adultery.
  
  In any case, her way of looking at the world and the people's, around her, are almost diametrically opposite. She signifies the free will, playfulness, a casual rebel with a bit of innocence to whom all it comes naturally. I was, to my surprise, enjoyed reading her view of the world and liked the character a lot ( what that says about me? No idea)
  
  Whereas her husband (father of Hrabal) is an old bat, plays the role of moralizer (though he changes a lot towards the end) regularly to her. I have never thought, a possession of hair by a women could mean this deep. Her hair becomes the symbol of a period, mindset etc, and she proudly claims that she has found her place in history through her hair.
  
  Hrabal's brilliance is in his style of prose, with its unending sentences where metaphors after metaphors stacks each other, and fresh similes peg themselves to the sentences, and digressions casually illuminates the topic further, and to top it all, with a mastery of wit!
  
  To have a taste of it:
  
  I am a six-year-old girl with loose flowing
  hair, on the crown of my head it is just caught with little
  blue ribbon bows. Dad hasn't broken a single wardrobe
  on my behalf for a whole year, it's Sunday noon and I
  am walking through the little square, in the open
  windows curtains flutter, you hear the chinking of
  cutlery and plates, the draught draws out the savour of
  food, yesterday Dad bought me a sailor suit and
  umbrella, I stand in front of the water fountain, then I
  lean over and look at my mirrored hair, coins gleam on
  the bottom, we think if you throw some money into the
  water fountain you may have a wish come true, for
  safety's sake I threw two twenty-heller bits into the
  fountain and wished that I should never drown again,
  never run away from home, and always be a decent
  little girl, especially when Daddy bought me such lovely
  clothes and an umbrella. I hopped up on the edge of the
  fountain to see better how nice I looked in that sailor's
  jacket, I looked about, no one was coming, no one was
  looking out of the window to complain to Daddy, I
  hopped up on the fountain, and when I leaned over,
  I saw the lovely pleated skirt and little white sockies and
  shiny polished shoes, 1 shook out my hair, and when
  I looked again at myself reflected in the water, I
  overbalanced and fell into the fountain, and the water
  swallowed me up like a great fish when it swallows a
  tiny little one, again I tried to find the bottom with my
  shiny little shoe, but the bottom of the fountain was
  deeper than I was tall, and again I surfaced for air, but I
  was too frightened to call for help, because Daddy
  would be too cross, and I was on my way to join the
  angels, again I was enveloped in a bright sweet world,
  as if I were a bee fallen into honey. I saw how my head
  fell slowly to the bottom, beside my eye I saw that
  twenty-heller coin which I had thrown into the fountain
  with the wish that I should never drown again, my skirt
  welled up so grandly and my hair washed across my
  face and again so slowly the hair grandly returned, and
  then I wanted to sleep and only moved my legs about
  very slowly, much more slowly than Mummy pedalling
  on her sewing machine, and for the last time I saw the
  little bubbles rising from my mouth, as if I was a bottle
  of soda or mineral water . . . but again I didn't drown,
  one lady saw me, Mrs Krsenska, who had been ten
  years in a wheelchair and had stomach ulcers, she had
  been looking out of her window just at the moment I fell
  in, and one gentleman came running over, Mr Pokomy
  the photographer, who jumped in after me still with his
  knife and fork and napkin tucked under his chin, and
  pulled me out. I woke up on the steps of the fountain, I
  had the impression it was raining, I took my little
  umbrella and spread it open, but actually the midday
  sun was shining and the bell finishing striking the
  midday hour, Mr Pokomy was leaning over me, water
  dropped from his napkin and a couple of frizzles of
  cabbage with it, Mr Pokomy was threatening me with
  the knife and fork in turn, saying if his dinner had got
  cold he was going to see to me again, because nice little
  girls if they want to drown themselves, do it at a proper
  time and not on the dot of twelve, when the first of the
  goose is on the table, and I looked and there in all the
  windows stood the townspeople in their shirts and
  waistcoats and all holding a fork in one hand and a
  knife in the other and all of them were looking down at
  me with annoyed expressions on their faces and
  indicating that what they'd really like to do was stick
  me on their forks and cut me up with their knives, and
  so I stood up and so much water gushed out of me that I
  thought the clouds had burst, I bowed, not that I
  wanted to make fun of them, but meaning that I
  recognised the point and knew I shouldn't have done it
  just when the first of the geese were on the roasting
  pans on a Sunday at noon..
  
  And there is uncle Pepin - brother of Francin (Father of Hrabal), who visits their house for a fortnight stay, but ends up staying till the very end, who claims himself as the sodger ( funnily, he is given an Scottish tongue in the "translation") in the Austrian troops, a chattering box with a gift for narration of tales which fills most of the pages. His character was the most energetic in the whole book - hollering around with tales of his people, enticing women in the bar, tapping his leg regularly to the music, and doing odd jobs in the brewery owned by his brother.
  
  To have a taste of the character :
  
  "Ugh,"
  expostulated Dad, "they could have got the pox or the
  crabs or something, but for goodness' sake, concentrate
  for a moment, these screws I'm about to hand you, put
  them on the board, and this last one too, and I'll support
  the sump on my chest while you climb out and bring
  over the old gherkin tin and I'll pour the oil out into it."
  "I know," said Uncle Pepin, "that's the oil from the
  gearbox, right?" "Gearbox my auntie, that goes with the
  differential, we'll take a look at that next Saturday, or
  tomorrow morning if you like, the gearbox and
  differential are towards the back, this is the sump, from
  the engine there, as I've just been telling you, the oil
  drops down and the pump pumps it round and up
  again, do you see?" "Now I see," said Uncle, even
  though he'd seen nothing, "so the oil goes back up to
  the distributor, right?" "Up your arse it does!" shouted
  Dad, "Up your arse and not the distributor, up your
  stupid arse!" he yelled, as oil started slopping down
  over his chest. "Now for the love of God concentrate,
  will you, and I'll just lower the sump down on to my
  chest." And Uncle called out delightedly, "Right you
  are then, Caruso used to have books piled on his chest
  to give him a better voice, and he could sing like a
  right-hand ox, pure joy to hear, a throat like a fine Swiss
  heifer, but d'you know what Vlasta said, that as a
  barmaid she has to pay tax on her artistic earnings? And
  maybe literary too? As an author or painter?" But Dad
  was engrossed body and soul in the engine and only
  wheezed back in excitement, "Hold up the sump, one
  more screw, hold it up with both hands like this .. "I
  know," said Uncle, "to stop the carburettor falling out."
  "For Jesus Christ's sake, don't torment me, the
  carburettor's way up on top . . ." "I know," said Uncle
  confidingly, "that's the cam that drives the petrol into
  the distributor." "What d'you mean, the distributor?"
  Dad mewled. "Well, so as to get sparks into the
  cauldron, one of the folks in the City Bar told me,
  Jarunka, he's the one that works as a station assistant,
  looks terrific in uniform, just like General Gajda, d'you
  know what happened to him? Once, when he fell asleep
  on the job, the lassie on the telegraph took out his
  privates, and the dispatcher coloured 'em with the ink
  for the stamps, and when Jarunka got home that
  morning, he wanted his missus' strongest and highest
  proof of love and affection while still in his uniform, and
  his lady said yes, but when Mr Jarunka took out his
  privates to carry out, in the words of Mr Batista's
  handbook, this marital cohabitation, alias coition, his
  missus was horrified by his purple-painted privates and
  she flew off to ask the stationmaster what sort of
  swinish behaviour alias misdemeanours were going on
  there during working hours, and as she burst into the
  stationmaster's office, she caught the stationmaster
  bald-headed, with his toupee sitting on the table on a
  false head, he was just combing it ready for duty, and so
  the missus just had to take some soap and scrub Mr
  Jarunka's genitalia on the washboard, but it wouldn't
  come off, so she took some acid liquid she kept for
  cleaning the WC, but Mr Jarunka started bellowing and
  rushed off with his genitalia through the workers' estate
  all the way to the railway station and back, and people
  were shocked, partly because he was in uniform, partly
  because of his purple private parts, and partly because
  he was bellowing so loud .. And Dad removed the
  last screw, and the sump settled down on his chest, and
  Dad roared out, "Stop roaring in my ear like that, or I'll
  start roaring too, go and fetch some staves and prop up
  this sump for me, it's blessed heavy." Uncle Pepin lay
  on his tummy and proffered advice: "Try singing,
  brother, like J^a PospiSil, a tenor has to be trained to be
  a tenor, has to be trained by a trainer ..." he rambled
  on and then he climbed out, but then, while still
  kneeling there, he thought again and bent down his
  head and enquired, "Oughtn't I to go and pay my
  organisation?" But Dad roared, "You're not going
  anywhere, bring me those props, it's dripping in my
  eyes!" "What where?" inquired Uncle. "In my eyes,
  oil!" And Uncle expressed wonder: "Your eyes, oil? But
  to finish my story, that Jarunka chappie, that worked
  the barrier poles on the level-crossing, he also sent a
  report to the Academy once, backed up by his own
  observations and those of the engine-drivers and
  stationmasters, saying that sparrows were taking free
  rides in groups and ^ghting on empty waggons and
  going on train trips to Southern Bohemia, or the spa
  town of Bohdanei, once they even set off on an outing
  from Kostomlaty to Vienna, with no permits, just to see
  what Vienna looked like from the top of Steffi, alias St
  Stephen's Cathedral, and back they came in empty
  waggons to VrSovice, switched to the milk train, and
  returned to Kostomlaty in the waggons, except that
  when in Prague while they were at it they nipped off to
  have a quick peep at the Castle . . . but they're going to
  be closing soon, oughtn't I to pop over and fetch my
  laundry?"
  
  The second novella is "The little town where time stood still", where Hrabal, being a kid, starts narrating their town's history. It starts out with one of the most lovely children stories I have ever read, where Hrabal wants a boat to be tatooed on his body, but the person ends up doing a grotesque mermaid. What is more interesting is that, in that chapter, we have Hrabal witness as a child, the foreplay or rather one can say, sexual mischief of the Dean in the church with his ladies (why interesting? Because it is a child's view of it and it is unique). Anyway, I am sharing a different part of that story here :
  
  Dean Spumy, the priest I used to help serve holy
  mass, was the first person I wanted to tell of my desire,
  this desire to have a boat tattooed on my chest, because
  he too, to show his obedience to God, had had his hair
  trimmed in a special little tonsure on the crown of his
  head. Moreover Dean Spumy was a marvellous man in
  every way, still speaking in his original Silesian dialect,
  in fact to judge by our Dean the Lord God Himself
  spoke with him in this same dialect, for our Dean used
  to converse with God, at least so he thundered from the
  pulpit. He would say on a Sunday, "O Spumy, Spumy,
  ye hairless old bull, I commit these innocent sheep intae
  yer care and ye bring 'em tae heaven like pigs sozzled
  wi' liquor. . ." Now a Dean, I said to myself, that
  speaks like that, surely he'll give me a blessing when I
  kneel before him in my acolyte's cassock, spread the
  palms of my hands out before me like so, bow down my
  head and tell him about such an innocent little sailing
  boat. But the Dean was in a msh, he chucked off his
  mackintosh, sipped at his vermouth, the Dean drank
  nothing else but vermouth, when we went to
  administer the rites, I had to take a little basket and in it
  along with the holy oil and the paten a bottle of
  vermouth . . . And so the Dean went off, and I removed
  my cassock, and there I was kneeling before the
  tabernacle and gazing at the golden figure of Christ
  poking out of the blooms of peony and guelder rose,
  and there I saw all of a sudden, that He too had a heart
  tattooed on His chest, a heart encompassed by a garden
  thicket of prickly briar roses . .. And so, as I emptied the
  collection boxes with their offerings for the upkeep of
  the church, first I took out a five-crown bit, and then I
  put it right back again, but finally I borrowed it once
  and for all, totally and unshakably convinced that I was
  going to return it, as I said myself to the golden Christ in
  the sacristy. Upon my soul and word of honour. I'm only
  borrowing it. . . and I showed it to Jesus, so He should
  know that that was all I was taking. Many's the time I've
  spoken like that to Christ, because with God the Father I
  didn't dare, especially since the day one small farmer
  called Mr Farda, of whom it was said he quarrelled with
  God for nights on end and shouted up at Him and God
  back down at him, when this farmer one day, bringing
  in his last cartload of hay, and me just out of school and
  a thunderstorm brewing, when Mr Farda was urging
  the horses on with his whip, to get the dry hay in out of
  the rain and into the loft, as they got under the bridge it
  started to drizzle, and then the downpour truly began, a
  cloudburst, Mr Farda took great handfuls of wet hay
  and slung them up in the air, skyward, and hollered up
  to God on high, " 'Ere, 'ave yourself a bellyful!" And
  God answered him in the lightning, which split the
  poplar on the towpath in twain, and the horses
  trembled and so did I, and the onlooking regulars under
  the eaves of the Bridge Inn public house fell down on
  their knees, though not before God mind you, it was the
  scent of the lightning overpowered them, as that bolt of
  lightning zipped down the road and along the railing of
  the bridge like a fiery tomcat. Today the Bridge Inn was
  in a jovial mood. "Who's the little sailor then?"
  exclaimed Mr Lojza, as I stood before him in my
  sailor's jacket and white mariner's cap with its double
  black band, crossed at the back with two bows.
  
  My only minor complaint was that in some places, Hrabal sounded more like an adult's voice in a child's perspective, than a proper child view of the world. Particularly, in the very same chapter where he wants to have a boat tatooed.
  
  The times change, war comes and goes, dawn of Communism shines upon the land with its sweeping rays uplifting not only the disadvantaged, but also uprooting --- not only the living, but also the cemetery of the past.
  Hrabal, after the first chapter of the second novella, completely changes his style to more a sober recording of the events that unfolds in the town.
  It is as if they are two separate books written during separate literary period of a writer.
  Interestingly, the coming of Germans only mildly scratches the surface, but the sun of communism scorches and topples the town upside down.
  
  And he ends with a moving portrait of his town (in a complete contrast with his earlier depiction) , richly blessed with spiritual symbolism; occupied by empty old souls, with few remnants of shining radiance of humanism; a wistful yearning of an era; a note of a renewal of hope, all imbued with sheer poignance!
  
  If one has to describe the work in a short and sweet way, one can just say:
  A swansong for a lost time!
• 
  Katya

  "Deus não gosta da verdade, gosta dos malucos e das pessoas exaltadas(...), Deus gosta da não-verdade repetida na fé, até gosta mais da mentira apaixonada do que da verdade seca..."
  24
  
  
  Na minha senda pela melancolia não podia deixar de fazer uma paragem nesta obra.
  Bohumil Hrabal tem a biografia perfeita para aliciar leitores que, como eu, procuram a poesia na banalidade do dia a dia: contemporâneo de Kundera, embora lhe exceda uns anos, Hrabal é descrito como amante da boa vida - leia-se da bebida (enfim, não seria exatamente a minha definição de prazer, mas adiante...) -, é descrito, dizia eu, como o homem dos mil ofícios, de ferroviário a telegrafista a agente de seguros etc., depois de abandonar a carreira académica em '39, e o curso que só virá a poder completar anos mais tarde. Hrabal vive tempos absolutamente memoráveis, a ocupação alemã da Segunda Guerra - a mesma que lhe encerraria as portas da Universidade de Praga -, a ocupação soviética do pós-Segunda Guerra, o comunismo instituído pela Primavera de Praga...um sem fim de cataclismos que culminaram na sua perseguição e censura. Curiosamente, Hrabal é dos poucos que escolhe não abandonar o país - numa postura que me surpreende e intriga muitíssimo (postura muito semelhante à de Boris Pasternak, ali muito perto).
  Romanticamente, Hrabal morrerá após cair de uma varanda do hospital onde estava internado e de onde, aparentemente, alimentava pombos.
  Isso ou Hrabal simplesmente se atirou janela fora. Mas para quê manchar o enredo romântico?
  
  Bom.
  
  Muitas vezes penso que talvez o sentido de humor faça parte do manancial de qualidades checas (é-me muito cedo para afirmar), mas Hrabal é sem dúvida um escritor dotado de um humor peculiar: ora grotesco ora cândido, e doseado de forma bastante agradável. Verdade se diga que dei comigo a rir bastantes vezes, embora tudo o que me passou ao lado.
  O surrealismo da sua obra, no entanto, não me apela particularmente aos sentidos, talvez porque a transposição entre a tragédia e o humor, que perfazem o seu estilo, resulta sempre grotesca, e o grotesco sai completamente do registo que aprecio. Ainda assim, não foi essa a maior barreira que transpus nesta leitura. A linguagem brejeira e depreciativa foi definitivamente o gatilho que me fez desinteressar das restantes, digamos, 100 páginas... O livro tem apenas 130. O enredamento já não era fácil de seguir, pois Hrabal encadeia múltiplas histórias no discurso do seu narrador, mas estes modos de estivador deram conta da minha boa vontade.
  
  Autobiográfica como não podia deixar de ser, a narrativa acompanha a vida de dois homens simples (pai e tio do narrador a que poderiam facilmente fazer-se corresponder pai e tio do escritor). Mas a promessa das primeiras páginas não é essa, e, se o livro começa como uma aguarela da vida do jovem narrador que sonha vir a tornar-se marinheiro, depressa o escritor nos leva num périplo de metáforas e analogias em que o marinheiro se transforma num ser mítico e não já real como aquele a que o jovem (Hrabal?) aspirava...
  Muito em breve a história se resume a um traçado de uma vida excêntrica, e inevitavelmente trágica, de um leviano sem préstimo (embora lá corajoso seja ele) transformado em herói.
  
  Sabem-me sempre a pouco estes retratos que legitimam caracteres baixos, desinteressantes e arrogantes, como se ser homem (ser humano) fosse apenas isto...
  
  Depois existem alguns problemas a nível de teoria de literatura: Hrabal escolhe construir uma narrativa a partir da visão de um personagem (autobiográfico) que tem parte na história - e, logo, narra na primeira pessoa -, mas fazendo dele personagem depressa se esquece que o seu narrador não pode ter poderes omniscientes...e ele tem-nos. Está em todo o lado, a toda a hora e tem profundo conhecimento das motivações e sentimentos de cada um dos intervenientes. Se isto acrescenta ao surrealismo da história e pode (e deve) ser intencional? Pode, mas para mim não resulta.
  
  Posto isto, há uma rebeldia de fundo que atrai em Hrabal - um certo anti-clericalismo, uma certa aversão política e uma permanente busca pela liberdade total que guardo como o verdadeiro tesouro da sua escrita, e que seriam refrescantes se não se perdessem nesta trama tão pouco profunda.
  
  Depois disto tudo, talvez Uma Solidão Demasiado Ruidosa ainda mereça qualquer coisa da minha atenção... Veremos. Só eu terei a ganhar ou a perder.
• 
  Ana

  Algures nas margens do rio Elba fica A terra Onde o Tempo Parou, e lá vive o pequeno Francin. Pela sua voz são-nos dados a conhecer episódios da vida quotidiana que envolvem a sua família - em particular o seu pai (também de nome Francin) e o seu tio Pepin "que como dizia a mamã, veio passar quinze dias em nossa casa, há oito anos, e ficou connosco até hoje" - e um conjunto de outras personagens, durante um período que abarca a ocupação nazi e o início da invasão soviética. No entanto, o contexto histórico serve apenas de pano de fundo centrando-se a acção nas peripécias dos personagens principais e em tudo o que se relaciona com a vida boémia do tio Pepin. Uma narrativa recheada de episódios burlescos, que nos despertam o riso, mas que termina num tom mais sério e triste. Divertido, ternurento, melancólico e mais um personagem inesquecível, ingredientes usuais do imaginário deste autor e das atmosferas que cria. Delicioso.
• 
  Irmak ☾

  "Oh, how I suffered with this home, how I felt myself shot out through the window, even when it was closed, out through the walls, just out and out and out, where the branches of the old lindens and chestnuts waved at me through the window, where the rain tapped at me, where the wind called out to me, as it rattled in from the brewery through the open window!"
  
  enjoyable. my first Hrabal and definitely won't be my last. however, it takes a bit of time to get used to the run-on sentences and the constant shifting points of view.
• 
  João Carlos

  
  Mural numa rua de Praga (República Checa) em homenagem ao escritor Bohumil Hrabal
  
  Bohumil Hrabal nasceu em 1914 em Brno, na época uma cidade que pertencia à província da Morávia, do Império Austro-Húngaro, e que hoje faz parte da República Checa; dedicando-se exclusivamente à produção literária em 1962. Depois da invasão soviética em 1968, foi perseguido pelo regime comunista, não podendo continuar a publicar legalmente as suas novelas, um silêncio editorial forçado, de cerca de oito anos, apenas retomado em 1976.
  Bohumil Hrabal faleceu aos oitenta e três anos, na cidade de Praga em 1997, ao cair de uma janela num quinto andar, onde estava a dar de comer a uns pombos; mantendo-se o debate sobre se foi acidente ou suicídio.
  Em ”A Terra Onde O Tempo Parou” o narrador é um rapaz, Francin, que decidi fazer uma tatuagem, ”Um barquinho com uma âncora”; mas o tatuador, o senhor Alois, estava bêbado. Na primeira vez que Francin contempla o seu peito, ao espelho, vê: ”… uma sereia tatuada, com a barriga barbuda, com as mamas e os olhos grandes como melancias, aquela sereia nua sorria para mim…” (Pág. 16)
  É neste registo de comédia negra que Bohumil Hrabal desenvolve a narrativa, numa pequena aldeia, uma terra onde o tempo parou, que tem no tio Pepin (o tio de Fracin), uma personagem inesquecível, um bom-vivant, , ”… que, … , veio passar quinze dias em nossa casa , há oito anos, e ficou até hoje.” (Pág. 17), trabalhando na fábrica de cerveja onde o pai de Fracin, é gerente.
  ”A Terra Onde O Tempo Parou” tem inúmeras histórias quotidianas, que resultam da visão infantil e inocente de Francin, durante o período da ocupação nazi no decurso da Segunda Guerra Mundial e da posterior libertação comunista; factos históricos e as transformações políticas que são relegados para segundo plano; destacando-se, prioritariamente, as personagens, que enfrentando as vicissitudes da vida procuram, cada um à sua maneira, a felicidade, esquecendo as dificuldades e as desgraças da vida quotidiana.
  Bohumil Hrabal é, sem dúvida nenhuma, um escritor de culto, que tem um estilo original, construindo uma narrativa mágica, criando e descrevendo personagens inesquecíveis, originais e extravagantes; num relato onde abundam os momentos tragicómicos, que criam no leitor um sentimento ambíguo, entre o riso e o choro, com humor e ternura, mas onde a melancolia acaba por dominar.
• 
  César Carranza

  El libro es ligero, se puede leer en un momento si se disponen del par de horas que necesita. Aunque el libro me ha gustado bastante, esperaba un poco más, la historia es sencilla, el pequeño narrador nos cuenta las aventuras de su tío, hermano de su padre, ambos trabajan en la fábrica de cerveza, sólo que en posiciones distintas, su tío es un obrero mientras el padre es el gerente, tienen un temperamento muy distinto, pero eso no evita que se lleven muy bien.
  
  A diferencia de muchos libros donde la trama transcurre en la época de la segunda guerra mundial, este libro es amable, no obliga leer atrocidades, suceden algunas cosas muy por atrás, pero ese no es el tema, eso lo hace un poco diferente la mayoría de estas historias.
  
  Los personajes, como siempre con Hrabal, increíbles, muy bien construidos, la historia corre sola, un gran libro.
• 
  Mohammad

  هرابال که همون هرابال جادویی بود اما ترجمه غلط های زیادی داشت
• 
  Tsung

  “There’s something about Mary(ska)”
  
  Can I say that? She’s coquettish, free spirited, adventurous, vivacious, mischievous and rambunctious. Why haven’t I met her before?
  
  Anyway, I really like this book. It’s quirky, funny, irreverent, ribald, slapstick and absurd. Why haven’t I read this before?
  
  It consists of two stories. The stories revolve around a small family in a small Czech town before World War II. Maryska is married to Fracin, who manages the local brewery, and could not be more polarized from her in terms of personality. He is far more straitlaced and conservative. Yet they make a close couple. Thrown into the mix is the even more rambunctious, eccentric, jovial, outspoken, happy-go-lucky Uncle Pepin, Fracin’s brother. He’s even bizarrely given a Scottish accent.
  
  The first story is “Cutting It Short” and is told from Maryska’s point of view. She stumbles from one misadventure to the next. At the end, she takes a radical step of raising her hemline above the knees as well as cutting her hair short. It’s a sign of the times, of modernization and of changing fashions. Francin rejects this change and gives her bottom an old fashioned spanking.
  
  The second story is “The Little Town Where Time Stood Still” and is told by Francin and Maryska’s son. The misadventures continue and involve different family members. The hijinks come to an abrupt end with World War II. Yet the impact we see the impact on the family is minimal. Uncle Pepin even becomes a hero of sorts with his defiance of the Germans. Then comes the ominous communist takeover and it was heart breaking to see the family lose almost everything. It was enough to crush Uncle Pepin’s spirit, something which even the Germans could not do, turning him into a shadow of his former self. In contrast to the changing times in the first story, time now stood still for this town.
  
  The book was great fun. Most of it was hilarious and frivolous. Yet it ended on a more serious, thought provoking note. Now I'm curious about Czech literature.
  
• 
  Judy Vasseur

  A masterful interweaving of the sacred with the human more cheerfully crafted than Flannery O’Connor. A juxtapositioning of the crude with the spiritual, like the blending of spices in a Thai soup, like that elusive Umami, the Japanese 5th flavor...the same strangely delicious monosodium glutamate of Southern Gothic fare.
  
  It’s like a painting. This book is a saturated, sensuous and earthy contemplation of the joys and rewards of being bad; also a detailed examination of familiar but ecstatic notions, small machines, breakage and accidents, human toil and skill, food and drink, suffering animals, and quirky personalities through a lusty Bohumil Hrabal lens. Every now and then he slips in something so profound it makes you stop in mid-sentence and stare straight ahead or some extreme fatalism so shocking you have to hee haw for several minutes.
  
  Reading paragraphs here is like dusting objects in a cabinet of curiosities—It’s wise to take it slow and admire the colors and gently fondle each strange shape.
  
  This is also a humorous view of the collision of completely opposite personalities existing side by side within families. Ever wonder how you can have the same DNA as the rest of your family? Or what planet the stork brought you in from? Aside from all the tension and comedic fatalism, it is a loving tale of two brothers and a tender tale of growing old.
  
  An excellent article on Hrabal is available to read online here:
  
  http://www.lrb.co.uk/v23/n01/james-wo...
  
  Needless to say I am pissed off that more of this man’s novels have not been translated into English.
  
• 
  João Reis

  Com pena minha, só no ano passado descobri Bohumil Hrabal. Entretanto, li alguns livros dele e adoro-os a todos. Este não é exceção. Creio que só Hrabal consegue misturar com tamanha eficácia o grotesco, o picaresco, o melancólico, o surreal (talvez só Céline se lhe assemelhe, conquanto este último expirasse ressentimento e ódio, sentimentos ausentes da obra de Hrabal). Nesta linha, Hrabal insere-se na típica literatura checa - com a qual, na verdade, me identifico muitíssimo mais do que com a portuguesa -, sem deixar de criar uma identidade muito sua. Quem consegue parar de ler um livro de Hrabal assim que inicia a sua leitura? Eu, pelo menos, não consigo.
• 
  Czarny Pies

  This is a wonderful book about the former country of Czechoslovakia during the 1930s and post war years. . On each page Talleyrand seems to whisper into the reader's ear: "He who did not live in the years before the [dictator ship of the proletariat] cannot understand what the sweetness of living is. "
  
  Live is wonderful indeed in the small town where Hrabal grew up. It was especially so for Hrabal, his father a brewer and his joyful mother. One cannot but help but be enchanted by the first half of the book where the author recounts his childhood idyll which vanishes with the Nazi invasion and which cannot return under soviet occupation.
  
  The second half of the book is a very accurate description of how bourgeois elements in Czech society were stripped of their assets, their social prestige and their treasured memories. As such it is very useful to anyone living in the West who has heard of the phenomenon but has no ideas about how it worked in practice. Fortunately Hrabal takes enough pride in his father's actions during this terrible period that the warm glow from the first half of the book never leaves the reader's heart.
  
  This is a great book for those friends or family that lived through the communist era in central Europe and wish to understand the experience better.
• 
  Cuồng Say

  Love-ly, love-ly, and love-ly. Recommended.
• 
  J.M. Hushour

  "I knew that the Lord God didn't actually love the truth so much, in fact he loved madmen, crazy exalted enthusiasts, people like my Uncle Pepin."
  
  Far superior to Hrabal's Too Loud a Solitude, these two novellas are personable, gruff, rough, and often naughty works of a small Czech town in the early 20th century that I can easily compare to the similar folksy, bare-balled Irish works of Flann O'Brien.
  These are thinly veiled biography and autobiography. The first story centers on a young woman (Hrabal's mother) and her wacky adventures with her brewer husband, his brother Pepin, and her hair. There are motorcycles, tall tales, bawdy drinking, and hormone electrodes. The second story, a young narrator observes the larger-than-life Uncle Pepin roar and yell and drink his way through life in their small town during and after World War 2.
  Perhaps it is a mere difference in translators, but this little collection was so stunning and funny that I'm eager to read more Hrabby.
• 
  Trishita (TrishReviews_ByTheBook)

  A love letter to a time gone by, an elegy on a way of life of the past, The Little Town Where Time Stood Still moves in tender details of the lives of two brothers, Francin and Pepin. Both as different as chalk and cheese live in a town, you guessed it right, where nothing happens. While nothing much happens in the town, their lives are permanently changed by the outside world and its onward progress.
  
  We follow the individual but conjoined journeys of Francin and Pepin, as told by Francin’s son, who features early on in the story and never again. Uncle Pepin had come to stay with them 8 years ago for a fortnight and never left. He is bursting with life and energy, he is gallant and outspoken, he is a singer, a dancer, a lover while his brother is a manager at a brewery, he is quiet and resolved, his sole focus in life are his motors and trucks, and beer. He lives life listlessly, uninterested and unprovoked. As time marched, as their world began to change, so did the brothers, each becoming a little less like themselves and a lot more like the other.
  
  The prose is lyrical, and touching, absurdly funny and dripping with wisdom. Bohumil Hrabal is an extraordinary writer, he weaves his almost plotless narrative with such exuberance of voice and wit that it propels the novel with a sprightly speed. Thank goodness, because otherwise this book, written in a stream of consciousness - with long sentences and without paragraph gaps, would have truly been an uphill battle, especially for a reader like me.
  
  And, oh what an ending! That last line reverberates with a calm understanding of all that life is, and with the knowledge that it all happens for a reason. Oh, it makes you want to live so fully!
  And I didn’t know until the last line of my review, but now I’m sure - 5 stars!
  
  This was my first book, to my recollection, by a Czech author in a Czech setting. I will be revisiting Hrabal, but I'll also be on the lookout for other Czech writers.
• 
  Dennis

  This is really two novellas about life in a Czech town just before communism really took hold and changed things. The original was changed by the authorities but in its unrevised form, it's really a touching and funny book. If there'sone thing that's striking, it's that small towns are alike all over the world, a collection of stories which everyone knows (as opposed to a big city which can be considered a collection of unknown stories.) There are no secrets and memories live forever (as do vendettas.) Having lived in the Czech Republic, I could better appreciate the cultural icons but most of this is recognizable everywhere in the world.
• 
  Andrew

  I read The Little Town Where Time Stood Still, as I rode the trains through little towns in the Czech hinterlands where time indeed seemed to be standing still, where middle-aged men with ruddy noses and mustaches drank from their two-liter plastic bottles of Staropramen at 8 in the morning. And this is the tale of those hinterlands, and the misadventures and weirdness that occur there. That being said, I didn't enjoy it nearly as much as the other Hrabal books I read, but it was still a serviceable dose of Slavic chaos.
• 
  Richard

  I can't for the life of me understand why the translator gave Uncle Pepin a Scottish accent.
  
  Aside from that, pretty good.
• 
  Paco Serrano

  En una pequeña ciudad checa, en la que el paso del tiempo parece no existir, sus habitantes, en gran parte obreros de una fábrica de cerveza, son testigos del paso del ejército alemán primero, y del ejército ruso después, durante la época de Segunda Guerra.
  
  Esta novela es un retrato de cómo las ciudades y los pueblos fueron víctimas de su circunstancia histórica, y de cómo sus habitantes fueron seres sometidos a las ideologías dominantes en turno.
• 
  Ismael J.

  Una obra de Arte. Así de "simple".
  Una novela que recoge toda una época, la primera mitad del siglo XX, de centro Europa y la narra con una delicadeza exquisita.
  Para mí ha sido uno de los descubrimientos de este año.
• 
  Chuck LoPresti

  Hrabal seems much informed by Rabelais in these paired offerings. They are basically character sketches that revolve around two brothers and one of their wives, a brewery and their town. While Hrabal writes about what he knows - his town and his life - there's a glowing transcendence that casts a beautiful glow over each page. Of course he didn't see the Chicago based film - My Bodyguard - prior to writing this but I couldn't get that movie out of my head. Nor could I stop thinking about Gargantua and his crazy pal Panurge. In My Bodyguard - a misunderstood but totally likeable troubled youth searches junkyards for his missing carburetor - this search is futile until his contrasting and coddled counterpart assists and it's their collaboration that creates results. In simpler terms - this is a buddy story among two contrasted brothers. Now add in the emotional drive and sapience of Rabelais and his love for the flaws of man often defined by lists of material things that are draped like garlands around the feast table that sustains life - and you've got a pretty solid point of comparison. Add a dash of Good Soldier Sveik and you'll see the component parts that comprise Uncle Pepin and his straight man brother.
  
  Also like Rabelais - this is not some angelic and shimmering frippery - quite the opposite - it's sex, beer and the threat of a punch in the nose that creates the beauty here. Hrabal tells us that god likes the flaws and lies that define man - just like Rabelais makes us very sympathetic to Panurge and his fleas.
  
  My Bodyguard ranks amongst the best of Chicago films - it loves the city and shows it often. The peak of this film, in terms of its love for its setting, is a scene where the Maxwell Street Market is the protagonist. I saw John Lee Hooker play there as a child. Former concentration camp prisoners with their tattoos served 50 cent hot dogs while you browsed for your recently stolen tools with the background of the city right over you shoulder. I can still smell the onions and Hrabal makes sure you do as well.
  
  The common elements of Hrabal are here - if you've read Too Loud a Solitude - you wouldn't need to be told this is the same author - if you haven't read it - add it to your list. The brewery takes the place of the factory and its machinations are like the gears that cradle and contort Chaplin in his Modern Life. Add in some bawdy ladies and enough food and drink for everyone and you'll see Hrabal's hand.
  
  Don't worry about plot so much. That's secondary to the scenery and humanity - just like a Brueghel painting. These are not so much my conclusions as they are the elements of Hrabal's afterword that closes this book to perfection. Rarely do I appreciate being pulled by the nose - but when it's Hrabal's fingers in your nostrils it's somehow pleasant. In his afterward, his final sentence states, "Up then towards that which as yet is not." How this "up" works is the essence of Hrabal - don't look towards the skies for that movement - you'll only find it when you are focused on the beauty of the foundation of that arc - it's there you'll find the flames on which the sparks rise.
  
  There are books you appreciate - but some you love. Hrabal's work consistently makes me feel that appreciation of humanity and its flaws -something pretty close to love I guess. Not since Kosztolanyi's Skylark have I felt that way about a writer and that writer's book. I need to get back to Czech when time and budget allows...I've never not had fun there.
• 
  Jim Puskas

  This is delightful stuff! Gentle, whimsical, earthbound lyricism. A celebration in memory of a simpler time, a lost world from before the scourge of Stalinism with its compulsive need to trumpet its make-believe “workers’ paradise”. Right from page one of the first of these paired novelettes, we are drawn into a small town Bohemian world populated by an engaging array of eccentrics. Maryška’s delight that the electric power dies down early in the evening — thereby restoring her environment to cozy semi-darkness and the soft illumination of a few oil lamps — sets the scene and defines what this story is really all about. The pace is slow; nothing of great importance is expected to happen. People are savoring life and all that it has to offer.
  And yet, despite having a deep attachment to her traditional way of life, Maryška is also a rebel, she enjoys shaking things up. She is one of those remarkably complex characters one meets in literature once in a while, a multi-faceted personality you think you’ve got all figured out and then she turns the tables on you. Some fellow readers may see this as a stretch, but there were moments in “Cutting it Short” when Maryška brought to mind that nameless cleaning lady, one of the mime characters that Carol Burnett used to portray on her TV show.
  Many criticisms could be leveled at this book: Run-on sentences that meander from one topic to another; the translator’s inexplicable decision to render local patois as Scottish brogue; the preponderance of anecdote over plot. None of that mattered to me.
  A couple of examples to illustrate:
  Mr. Vanatko, night watchman at a brewery always came on duty feldmässig, battle-ready, with his Mexican rifle over his shoulder and full of joyful anticipation that surely one day someone would try to rob the safe or at least steal the straps from the little booth between the lifts to the ice chamber. “Halt!” roared Mr. Vanatko, pulling off the Mexican rifle, which was never loaded, because its last owner had lost its breech . And so it goes.
  Francin, the brewery manager is devoted to his Orion motorbike, which continually breaks down, thereby ensuring for him the joy of fetching it apart and re-assembling it, after which it malfunctions just as before. Then he acquires a Skoda and his son relates that this Skoda 430 worked to such perfection that Dad took it apart simply to find out why the machine performed so flawlessly, why it started and drove so perfectly, for that perfection kept Dad awake in his bed at night.
  It’s in the poignant final chapter that everything comes full circle. While time has stood still in this little town, the world has marched on relentlessly. We cannot escape our own human frailty, nor the consequences of what we do to ourselves and each other.
  It’s easy to imagine the outrage such a work would have provoked in the authorities determined to enforce “socialist realism”!
  Hrabal has quickly become one of my favorite writers, primarily for the deep humanity of his work.
  
  
• 
  Jim

  The more I read by
  Bohumil Hrabal, the more entranced I am by his work.
  The Little Town Where Time Stood Still and Cutting It Short is actually two novellas published separately, but with many of the same characters. The story is of a small Czech town where members of the family manage and work at a local brewery. The first novella is from the point of view of Maryska, the wife of brewery manager Francin. The second is from the point of view of their young son.
  
  In all, we see the family from the "old days" of the 1930s to the beginnings of Communist rule in the late 1940s. Francin's brother Pepin, a notorious scapegrace and follower of the local ladies, is perhaps the most important character overall. In the first novella, he comes to stay "for two weeks," but ends up staying the rest of his life.
  
  Hrabal has a feeling for beer and Eastern European pork cuisine that makes me look back longingly to my own Hungarian upbringing (though with plenty of pork minus the beer).
  
  Next to Franz Kafka, Hrabal is probably the greatest Czech writer of the 20th century.
  
  
• 
  grimaud

  Otro libro de Bohumil Hrabal que me ha encantado, es uno de mis autores favoritos, es algo parecido a estar enamorado de él porque no le veo los defectos. Sus libros siempre tienen elementos autobiográficos, en mayor o menor medida, aquí coincide que el narrador y Bohumil se criaron en un lugar sagrado, una fábrica de cerveza. Aquí hay mucho humor, los personajes están llenos de defectos pero al mismo tiempo resultan profundamente entrañables por la manera en que están retratados, como el abuelo que supera sus ataques de ira destrozando armarios con un hacha, o el padre obsesionado con desmontar y volver a montar motores, o la estrella del libro, el tío Pepin, un borracho juerguista medio chiflado nostálgico del imperio austrohúngaro. Todos ellos y algun otro personaje mas me han proporcionado algunas buenas risas y la prosa de Hrabal ha vuelto a resultarme arrebatadora. El cerebro me sugerido que le diera cinco estrellas de valoración, pero las entrañas me han ordenado que votara cinco estrellas doradas como cinco jarras de cerveza.
• 
  Corinne Wasilewski

  The sentences go on and on, sometimes for half a page and their structure is unwieldy (not sure if this is due to the Czech to English translation or simply the author's writing style--this is one of those questions that always arises when I'm reading a translation). The tone is definitely comic, but, the scenes tend toward slapstick and screwball comedy which are not my favourites by a long shot. Nevertheless, the narrative is just beautiful at times, including the opening pages and the nostalgic waxing for the past towards the end and because beautiful, insightful narrative covers a multitude of sins in my book, I'm going to overlook the slapstick and the clunky sentences and go with the three star rating.
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  Jfmarhuenda

  Qué maravilla. Hrabal es fantástico, su humor maravilloso y la mezcla del mismo con el drama fabuloso. Vivan los soldados austrohúngaros que salen siempre bien parados, viva Pepín, su hermano y el abuelo cascarrabias. Viva la gorra marinera de Pepín, los motores desmontados del padre, el mueble preparado para las rabietas del abuelo y el tatuaje del niño.
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  Pili

  Lo que más disfruté fue el Prólogo: la historia del autor, el contexto en que escribió ambas historias, la repercusión que tuvo en su momento y la trascendencia que ha logrado hasta hoy.
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  Manochehr.Zare

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