Rare are books that, as one reads them, one has the feeling of inhabiting, like a house where one can stroll back and forth, open and close different doors and cupboards to discover forgotten treasures. This is quintessential Hrabal. Harlequin's Millions, in Stacey Knecht's excellent translation, takes you on a curious sort of journey: you never get very far, you keep returning to the same spot, to the same motif, and you are utterly spellbound and wouldn't trade this for a journey around the world. Written in a sort of stream of consciousness, in the voice of a woman retiree who had recently moved into a retirement home located in a dilapidated castle overlooking "the town where the time stood still", the narrative follows the ebb and flow of memories and minute observations of the world around her, ranging from very moving to very funny, or both at once, interrupted only by the sound of your own laughter.

". . . Some of the men, a few dozen of them, have the habit of removing their teeth at the last moment, they do this so inconspicuously, they try so hard to be inconspicuous that almost all of them drop the dentures, which hit the parquet floor with a loud crash, the men lean over to one side, feel around guiltily for their teeth and wrap them in a handkerchief, and then the embarrassed and blushing pensioner tucks his false teeth, handkerchief and all, into his pants' pocket, while dozens of others are taking their teeth out of their pants' pockets and putting them back in their mouths, so that lunchtime is filled with the tinkling of spoons, knives, forks and the clattering of bowls and false teeth. . . And once again everyone gobbles down their food, as it it's a contest, or as if the battle between the Greeks and the Persians [depicted on the fresco billowing overhead] has spread to the hall below, only instead of swords and lances and shields the diners use spoons and knives, forks and napkins. . ."

Micro-events, such as the old men's daily struggle with their dentures, or an evening of music selected by a young doctor, are transformed, through the detailed descriptions and the choice of the vocabulary, and the story-teller's power of fascination, into events of mythical proportions: the dining hall activity mirrors the battle painted on the ceiling, and old women listening to music turn into lovesick nymphs. At the same time, History with capital H, the history of changing political regimes, the destruction of the old by the new, are dwarfed by the grandeur of everyday human gestures. ( )