Too Loud a Solitude

by Bohumil Hrabal

then, when the time is right, I’ll make only one bale a day, but what a bale, a bale to end all bales, a statue, an artifact, I’ll pour all my youthful illusions into it, everything I know, everything I’ve learned during my thirty-five years of work; at last I’ll work only when the spirit moves me, when I feel inspired, one bale a day from the three tons of books I have waiting at home, a bale I’ll never need to be ashamed of, a bale I’ll have time to think out, dream out, in advance.

I can be by myself because I’m never lonely, I’m simply alone, living in my heavily populated solitude, a harum-scarum of infinity and eternity, and Infinity and Eternity seem to take a liking to the likes of me.