Closely Watched Trains by Bohumil Hrabal was originally written in 1949 just after the Communist takeover in Czechoslovakia. At that time is was called The Legend of Cain and when Hrabal read it in 1950 to a gathering of the underground literary group he belonged to it was very well received. A book obsessed with death at a time when writers were supposed to be writing books painting a rosy picture of life under Communism, the book was not published until 1968 during the Prague Spring. Closely Watched Trains is a rewrite of The Legend of Cain that focused less on death and more on sex. Even so, it was not published until 1965 and Hrabal was accused by those who knew the original of prettying it up.
Closely Watched Trains is a short book, a novella or a very long short story depending on your definition. The story takes place at the train station in 1945 in the small town of Chocen. Milos Hrma is our 22-year-old narrator. He is an apprentice traffic dispatcher and is just back on duty after spending time in the hospital as a result of a suicide attempt. The reason he tried to kill himself was because he didn’t think he was a man–the girl he loved had offered herself to him and he could not keep an erection.
Along with Milos we have the stationmaster who keeps pigeons and proudly walks around the platform, the birds cooing and fluttering on his shoulders and outstretched arms. There is also Dispatcher Hubicka who is in charge of teaching Milos how to do his job. Dispatcher Hubicka, who has a reputation for being a lady’s man, is currently at the center of a scandal because one evening he lifted the telegraphist’s skirt and printed all the station’s stamps on her behind.
Milos tells the story in such a matter of fact and emotionless way that there is a surreality that spreads over everything making the normal seem strange and the strange normal. I wasn’t sure what to make of it while I was reading and I didn’t feel engaged with the story until, at the end when I found myself crying and I realized it had crept under my skin. I’ve been thinking about it for several days now and I am still not sure what to make of it, only that it is funny, dark, and sad. It is going to be hanging around with me for awhile. I’d like to re-read it sometime. It is a book like a pool that appears shallow but is actually very deep.
Hmm … yeah, it sounds like it would be hard to know how to respond to this one. I’m glad you ended up caring about it at the end — that it ended up communicating something deep. I’ve been meaning to read Hrabal for a while now and should get to it soon.
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I have often wondered what Hrabal is like and now I have a much better idea, thank you! I wonder how he compares to a writer like Milan Kundera, who is working in similar-ish territory? And interesting how these seemingly surreal and disengaged books can often end up getting in under the defences!
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I read this a few years ago but remember very little about it other than its surrealism; I do want to reread it at some point, especially seeing as it evoked such an emotional reaction in you. I read Hrabal’s I Served the King of England a few months ago and it was also exceptionally surreal and blackly humorous.
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Dorothy, I’d love to know what you make of Hrabal. He reminds me somewhat of Bruno Schulz but Hrabal is more of a realist.
Litlove, I’ve not read Kundera. He’s one of those I always mean to read but never seem to get around to. As I mentioned to Dorothy he sort of reminds me of Bruno Schulz and now that I think of it he’s also kind of like Makine too. They are all very different but there is also a passing similarity too. If any of that makes sense!
Paperback reader, I was taken by surprise by my emotional reaction. I want to read I Served the King of England when next I am in the right frame of mind for Hrabal.
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You’ve got me curious. I saw I Served the King of England a little while ago, having read a number of favourable reviews of both book and film. I didn’t think too much of it at the time, and I didn’t rush out for the book, but there are several scenes that have stuck with me. My feeling for it now is very much like you describe this novella, funny and surreal. So maybe I’ll give Hrabal a try after all.
For what it’s worth, I’ve read and loved a lot of Kundera — I always thought of him as fairly obvious. He fully explicates the point he’s trying to make. I wouldn’t describe him as surreal. But I can see how Hrabal might lie between Kundera and Schulz on a kind of real-surreal spectrum.
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