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Hunger
One of the most important and controversial writers of the 20th century, Knut Hamsun made literary history with the publication in 1890 of this powerful, autobiographical novel recounting the abject poverty, hunger and despair of a young writer struggling to achieve self-discovery and its ultimate artistic expression. The book brilliantly probes the psychodynamics of alienation, obsession, and self-destruction, painting an unforgettable portrait of a man driven by forces beyond his control to the edge of the abyss. Hamsun influenced many of the major 20th-century writers who followed him, including Kafka, Joyce and Henry Miller. Required reading in world literature courses, the highly influential, landmark novel will also find a wide audience among lovers of books that probe the "unexplored crannies in the human soul" (George Egerton).
134 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1890
About the author
Knut Hamsun
620 books2,279 followersNovels of Norwegian writer Knut Hamsun (born Knud Pedersen), include
Hunger
(1890) and
The Growth of the Soil
(1917). He won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1920.
He insisted on the intricacies of the human mind as the main object of modern literature to describe the "whisper of the blood, and the pleading of the bone marrow." Hamsun pursued his literary program, debuting in 1890 with the psychological novel Hunger.
He insisted on the intricacies of the human mind as the main object of modern literature to describe the "whisper of the blood, and the pleading of the bone marrow." Hamsun pursued his literary program, debuting in 1890 with the psychological novel Hunger.
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March 6, 2012
I often catch myself staring, rather lovingly in fact, at my bookshelves. Each shelf is swelling nearly to the point of overflowing with books, each authors collection seemingly positioned at random - yet, somehow, the location of each work holds some secret form of order that is beyond even me. I'll caress each spine with my eyes, occasionally running a finger down it to feel a spark of retrospection and for a moment recall the times when I held a particular book during the course of absorbing it. I can often relate any major event in my life to the particular novel I was reading at the time, and vice versa, making my bookshelf an eternal, tangled web of my past. Perhaps this is why I never got into the electronic readers. I can understand their versatility and convenience, but there is a strange power felt while just holding a nice edition of a novel in your hands, especially after time has passed and you pick it back up just to feel its weight in your palms. Plus, I greatly enjoy scavenging through used book stores for old hardcovers and often traverse several stores before reading a novel I know I'll love just to be sure I have the edition that best suits me. One day I hope to have my own personal library; in my mind it looks much like the one from Beauty and the Beast a la Disney, but less cartoonish. Maybe it is an obsession, but literature fills a special place in my heart. It should, seeing as I owe a large sum of money back for furthering my education of it.
On the topic of obsession comes Hamsun's first novel, Hunger, published in 1890. As my eyes scanned each novel I had read in 2011, they stopped here and acknowledged this as my personal favorite novel I had read this past year. This book is a monumental achievement of psychological literature as it is a powerful examination of human consciousness. Hunger is a novel of a starving artist, meant in the most literal sense possible, who puts up with extreme hardship and hunger, suffering all for the pure sake of putting pen to paper. The reader is immersed in the nameless narrators consciousness, following him down the chilly streets of Christiana as he barely hangs on by a thread in pursuit of the next burst of genius to sell for small change in order to continue on. The reader is trapped in this unraveling mind, floating on his rantings and ravings that Hamsun details with eloquent precision, and watches as his moods shift and swing to and fro like a hinged door in a hellish hurricane.
I read this novel in a matter of two days, it is one that simply cannot be put down. I would set it aside and feel its pull begging me to transport myself back into the narrator and suffer his trials and tribulations with him. Although I read it perched on the side of a pool, my feet in the clear water and basking in the exquisit Michigan summer sun, I could not feel at ease as Hamsun projected the mania onto me. I felt much as the narrator felt, being drawn inside of him. He writes:
The novel moves in several parts, each taking place a few weeks after the previous and pitting the narrator in his most extreme moments of desperation. It will become quickly apparent that this narrator is no fool however, and is in fact quite brilliant. This brilliant mind weaves pages of lustrous prose and cutting insight to the world, and people, around him, yet we see him loose control and throw into a fit of anger and delirium and experience the occasional aberration of reality. It proposed the dilema, has he gone mad from hunger, or is he hungry because he has gone mad? Hamsun offers evidence to either side, yet leaves it up to you to draw conclusions. Hamsun intentionally conceives him out of contradictions, much like his hero Johan Nagel of his excellent sophomore novel Mysteries, showing him as brash but tender, kind yet callous, pathetic yet brave. He often comes into money but gives it all away to someone else while overcome with manic passions and seems to care little about his own lamentable conditions as if it were all some sort of game to him. He prays and speaks to God, trusting in his design, yet doubts his existence at the same time. This attention to the psychology of a frenzied, contradictory lead role has brought many comparions of Hamsun to Fyodor Dostoyevsky and his character Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment. This is an apt comparison, although I felt Hamsun's narrator and the Underground man from Notes From Underground were more kindred spirits. This book could practically be a prequel to that novel of Dostoyevsky's.
This novel is one of Hamsun's most personal, as it draws heavily from his own life experiences. As Robert Bly's afterword describes, Hamsun spent most of his young life working hard labor for menial pay, and became very much an introvert from the lack of his peers whom he could converse about 'higher ideas' with. He spend much of this time hungry and exceedingly poor, and would go into fits of writing lofty incantations, yet, in the yellow morning, would see these pages as nothing but stanzas of gibberish and tear them up and toss the scraps into the street (if you caught the lifting of Ginsberg there, one thousand cool points are awarded to you. That's my favorite part). Perhaps Hamsun felt he was loosing grip on reality, much like his narrator. I read an essay of Hamsun once that said he was a wanderer, often moving to new places to get inspiration for novels and write in seclusion, and that he was highly popular with the female folk. The narrator seems an extension of Hamsun in this regard, as it is hinted that he is not a native of Chrisiana and has all across the map, and that even in his wretched state of malnutrition causing his ragged clothes to hang off him and his hair to fall out, he is still able to attract the affections of a local lady.
Hunger is not a novel you will ever forget. It sprouts deep roots within your heart and mind and will follow your thoughts wherever you go. If you are a first-time reader of the great Nobel laureate Knut Hamsun, this is a perfect introduction. Although I don't like to give such a one-sided depiction of a novel, this is one that I cannot find anything negative for to say. Upon completion, I declared that some day I will teach this novel, it is that good and there is enough material for countless discussions. This was my favorite novel that I read in 2011, and I hope you read it. It would be a damn shame not to.
5/5
How can you resist that mustache?
On the topic of obsession comes Hamsun's first novel, Hunger, published in 1890. As my eyes scanned each novel I had read in 2011, they stopped here and acknowledged this as my personal favorite novel I had read this past year. This book is a monumental achievement of psychological literature as it is a powerful examination of human consciousness. Hunger is a novel of a starving artist, meant in the most literal sense possible, who puts up with extreme hardship and hunger, suffering all for the pure sake of putting pen to paper. The reader is immersed in the nameless narrators consciousness, following him down the chilly streets of Christiana as he barely hangs on by a thread in pursuit of the next burst of genius to sell for small change in order to continue on. The reader is trapped in this unraveling mind, floating on his rantings and ravings that Hamsun details with eloquent precision, and watches as his moods shift and swing to and fro like a hinged door in a hellish hurricane.
I read this novel in a matter of two days, it is one that simply cannot be put down. I would set it aside and feel its pull begging me to transport myself back into the narrator and suffer his trials and tribulations with him. Although I read it perched on the side of a pool, my feet in the clear water and basking in the exquisit Michigan summer sun, I could not feel at ease as Hamsun projected the mania onto me. I felt much as the narrator felt, being drawn inside of him. He writes:
The dark had captured my brain and gave me not an
instant of peace. What if I myself became dissolved
into the dark, turned into it?
The novel moves in several parts, each taking place a few weeks after the previous and pitting the narrator in his most extreme moments of desperation. It will become quickly apparent that this narrator is no fool however, and is in fact quite brilliant. This brilliant mind weaves pages of lustrous prose and cutting insight to the world, and people, around him, yet we see him loose control and throw into a fit of anger and delirium and experience the occasional aberration of reality. It proposed the dilema, has he gone mad from hunger, or is he hungry because he has gone mad? Hamsun offers evidence to either side, yet leaves it up to you to draw conclusions. Hamsun intentionally conceives him out of contradictions, much like his hero Johan Nagel of his excellent sophomore novel Mysteries, showing him as brash but tender, kind yet callous, pathetic yet brave. He often comes into money but gives it all away to someone else while overcome with manic passions and seems to care little about his own lamentable conditions as if it were all some sort of game to him. He prays and speaks to God, trusting in his design, yet doubts his existence at the same time. This attention to the psychology of a frenzied, contradictory lead role has brought many comparions of Hamsun to Fyodor Dostoyevsky and his character Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment. This is an apt comparison, although I felt Hamsun's narrator and the Underground man from Notes From Underground were more kindred spirits. This book could practically be a prequel to that novel of Dostoyevsky's.
This novel is one of Hamsun's most personal, as it draws heavily from his own life experiences. As Robert Bly's afterword describes, Hamsun spent most of his young life working hard labor for menial pay, and became very much an introvert from the lack of his peers whom he could converse about 'higher ideas' with. He spend much of this time hungry and exceedingly poor, and would go into fits of writing lofty incantations, yet, in the yellow morning, would see these pages as nothing but stanzas of gibberish and tear them up and toss the scraps into the street (if you caught the lifting of Ginsberg there, one thousand cool points are awarded to you. That's my favorite part). Perhaps Hamsun felt he was loosing grip on reality, much like his narrator. I read an essay of Hamsun once that said he was a wanderer, often moving to new places to get inspiration for novels and write in seclusion, and that he was highly popular with the female folk. The narrator seems an extension of Hamsun in this regard, as it is hinted that he is not a native of Chrisiana and has all across the map, and that even in his wretched state of malnutrition causing his ragged clothes to hang off him and his hair to fall out, he is still able to attract the affections of a local lady.
Hunger is not a novel you will ever forget. It sprouts deep roots within your heart and mind and will follow your thoughts wherever you go. If you are a first-time reader of the great Nobel laureate Knut Hamsun, this is a perfect introduction. Although I don't like to give such a one-sided depiction of a novel, this is one that I cannot find anything negative for to say. Upon completion, I declared that some day I will teach this novel, it is that good and there is enough material for countless discussions. This was my favorite novel that I read in 2011, and I hope you read it. It would be a damn shame not to.
5/5
How can you resist that mustache?
October 10, 2022
No job… No money… No sustenance…
His hunger isn’t just physical… His hunger is also psychic… But there is a star that beckons him right through all the penury and hardships… There is a high goal… There are his ambitions… There are his dreams… There are his ideals… He is full of fantasies…
Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you…
I leaned forward with my elbows on the windowsill and gazed at the sky. It promised to be a clear day. Autumn had arrived, that lovely, cool time of year when everything turns color and dies. The streets had already begun to get noisy, tempting me to go out. This empty room, where the floor rocked up and down at every step I took, was like a horrible, broken-down coffin.
His hunger isn’t just physical… His hunger is also psychic… But there is a star that beckons him right through all the penury and hardships… There is a high goal… There are his ambitions… There are his dreams… There are his ideals… He is full of fantasies…
Suddenly one or two good sentences occur to me, suitable for a sketch or story, nice linguistic flukes the likes of which I had never experienced before. I lie there repeating these words to myself and find that they are excellent. Presently they’re joined by others, I’m at once wide-awake, sit up and grab paper and pencil from the table behind my bed. It was as though a vein had burst inside me – one word follows another, they connect with one another and turn into situations; scenes pile on top of other scenes, actions and dialogue well up in my brain, and a wonderful sense of pleasure takes hold of me. I write as if possessed, filling one page after another without a moment’s pause. My thoughts strike me so suddenly and continue to pour out so abundantly that I lose a lot of minor details I’m not able to write down fast enough, though I am working at full blast. They continue to crowd in on me, I am full of my subject, and every word I write is put in my mouth.
Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you…
September 11, 2021
(Book 813 from 1001 books) - Sult = Hunger, Knut Hamsun
Hunger is a novel by the Norwegian author Knut Hamsun published in 1890. Parts of it had been published anonymously in the Danish magazine "Ny Jord" in 1888.
The novel has been hailed as the literary opening of the 20th century and an outstanding example of modern, psychology-driven literature. Hunger portrays the irrationality of the human mind in an intriguing and sometimes humorous manner.
Written after Hamsun's return from an ill-fated tour of America, Hunger is loosely based on the author's own impoverished life before his breakthrough in 1890.
Set in late 19th-century Kristiania (now Oslo), the novel recounts the adventures of a starving young man whose sense of reality is giving way to a delusionary existence on the darker side of a modern metropolis.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیست و هشتم دسامبر سال 2010میلادی
عنوان: گرسنه؛ نویسنده: کنوت هامسون؛ (نگاه) ادبیات، عنوانهای ترجمه های فارسی: «گرسنگی»؛ یا «گرسنه»؛ مترجمه�� جنابان آقایان: غلامعلی سیار، سیدحبیب گوهریراد، و احمد گلشیری
نویسنده همین کتاب، بیست و دو ساله بودند، که وطن خویش «نروژ» را ترک گفتند، و به «آمریکای شمالی» رفتند؛ ایشان از سال 1883میلادی به بعد، نویسندگی را حرفه خویش برگزیدند، و به تدریج آثارشان را منتشر کردند؛ انتشار رمان روانکاوانه و نیمه خود زندگینامه ی «گرسنه»؛ شهرت «هامسون» را در سال 1890میلادی، به اوج رساند؛ برخی «فرانتس کافکا» را در نوشتن داستان کوتاه خویش با نام «هنرمند گرسنه»، متأثر از همین رمان «گرسنه» میدانند؛ در سال 1920میلادی، «هامسون» برنده ی جایزه «نوبل» در ادبیات شدند، که البته نگارش رمان حماسی «میوه های زمین»، نقش بسیاری برای دریافت آن جایزه داشت، ایشان در سال 1952میلادی، در سن 93سالگی، زندگی را بدرود گفتند؛ «توماس مان» ایشان را از نسل «فئودور داستایوسکی»، و «نیچه» میدانستند؛ «هامسون» در ادبیات روانکاوانه، همراه با تکنیکهای جریان ناخودآگاه، و تک گویی درونی، که بعدها در آثار «جیمز جویس»، «مارسل پروست»، و «ویرجینیا وولف»، ظاهر شدند، پیشگام بوده اند
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 01/09/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 19/06/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
Hunger is a novel by the Norwegian author Knut Hamsun published in 1890. Parts of it had been published anonymously in the Danish magazine "Ny Jord" in 1888.
The novel has been hailed as the literary opening of the 20th century and an outstanding example of modern, psychology-driven literature. Hunger portrays the irrationality of the human mind in an intriguing and sometimes humorous manner.
Written after Hamsun's return from an ill-fated tour of America, Hunger is loosely based on the author's own impoverished life before his breakthrough in 1890.
Set in late 19th-century Kristiania (now Oslo), the novel recounts the adventures of a starving young man whose sense of reality is giving way to a delusionary existence on the darker side of a modern metropolis.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیست و هشتم دسامبر سال 2010میلادی
عنوان: گرسنه؛ نویسنده: کنوت هامسون؛ (نگاه) ادبیات، عنوانهای ترجمه های فارسی: «گرسنگی»؛ یا «گرسنه»؛ مترجمه�� جنابان آقایان: غلامعلی سیار، سیدحبیب گوهریراد، و احمد گلشیری
نویسنده همین کتاب، بیست و دو ساله بودند، که وطن خویش «نروژ» را ترک گفتند، و به «آمریکای شمالی» رفتند؛ ایشان از سال 1883میلادی به بعد، نویسندگی را حرفه خویش برگزیدند، و به تدریج آثارشان را منتشر کردند؛ انتشار رمان روانکاوانه و نیمه خود زندگینامه ی «گرسنه»؛ شهرت «هامسون» را در سال 1890میلادی، به اوج رساند؛ برخی «فرانتس کافکا» را در نوشتن داستان کوتاه خویش با نام «هنرمند گرسنه»، متأثر از همین رمان «گرسنه» میدانند؛ در سال 1920میلادی، «هامسون» برنده ی جایزه «نوبل» در ادبیات شدند، که البته نگارش رمان حماسی «میوه های زمین»، نقش بسیاری برای دریافت آن جایزه داشت، ایشان در سال 1952میلادی، در سن 93سالگی، زندگی را بدرود گفتند؛ «توماس مان» ایشان را از نسل «فئودور داستایوسکی»، و «نیچه» میدانستند؛ «هامسون» در ادبیات روانکاوانه، همراه با تکنیکهای جریان ناخودآگاه، و تک گویی درونی، که بعدها در آثار «جیمز جویس»، «مارسل پروست»، و «ویرجینیا وولف»، ظاهر شدند، پیشگام بوده اند
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 01/09/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 19/06/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
September 8, 2017
Ένα αφόρητο αριστούργημα. Ένα βιβλίο που σε πονάει και σε θλίβει βαθιά και απεγνωσμένα. Σπαρακτικά ανθρώπινο και συγκινητικά τρομακτικό. Αυτή η ιστορια με πλήγωσε ψυχικά και σωματικά-ένιωσα να πονάω έντονα στο στομάχι απο αναπόφευκτη πείνα και απελπισία.
Τρομακτική αλληλεπίδραση σωματική και πνευματική.
Ολα τα μυστήρια του μυαλού και της ψυχής σε ένα εξαθλιωμένο αντρικό κορμί που πεινάει αλλά ποτε δεν παύει να ειναι πονόψυχος, ευγενικός,τίμιος και υπερήφανος ξεπερνώντας τα όρια της υπερβολής.
Ο ήρωας μας ειναι ένας διανοούμενος φτωχός και ανώνυμος ανθρωπάκος που περιφέρεται σε διαφορα σημεία της πόλης ζώντας σε φτωχικά και εξαθλιωμένα ενοικιαζόμενα δωμάτια και γραφοντας άρθρα ή διηγήματα με σκοπό να τα εκδώσει σε κάποια τοπική εφημερίδα και να κερδίσει τα ελάχιστα χρήματα που του χρειάζονται για να επιβιώσει.
«Βρίσκομαι λοιπόν τώρα σε ένα πολύ σημαντικό σημείο της αλληγορίας, εκείνο της πυρκαγιάς σε ένα βιβλιοπωλείο…Ήθελα ακριβώς να εκφράσω με βαθυστόχαστο τρόπο την ιδέα πως δεν ήταν βιβλία αυτά που καίγονταν αλλά ήταν μυαλά, ανθρώπινα μυαλά, και ήθελα να περιγράψω μια πραγματική Νύχτα Αγίου Βαρθολομαίου με αυτό το κάψιμο των μυαλών».
Όμως ολα έρχονται ανάποδα. Τα πάντα συνομωτούν εναντίον αυτής της τρυφερής ψυχής που παλεύει με όλο του το ειναι,με μια πεισματική ακατανίκητη επιθυμία να ζήσει αξιοπρεπώς -αυτό μόνο ζητάει-και να δώσει μαθήματα ανθρωπιάς και συμπόνι��ς σε μια απαξιωμένη κοινωνία.
Έτσι,μετα απο κάθε αποτυχία, κάθε ειρωνεία της τύχης που τον έχει σημαδέψει,κάθε απογοήτευση που τον χτυπάει ανελέητα και του σπαράζει κυριολεκτικά το σώμα αλλα κυρίως την αθωότητα και την αγνή του περηφάνεια, επιστρέφει χορτασμένος απογοήτευση,εξάντληση και πείνα στο παγωμένο και σκοτεινό κατάλυμα του.
Όταν οριακά παλεύει μεταξύ φθοράς και αφθαρσίας, με αιχμηρό χιούμορ και συγκινητικό αυτοσαρκασμό ανακαλύπτει μια νότα αισιοδοξίας και ελπίδας και τότε νιώθει ευγνώμων,ονειρεύεται, μετανιώνει που καταράστηκε την εγκατάλειψη του απο Θεό και ανθρώπους και συνεχίζει τον αγώνα του λιμού ενάντια στην ανθρώπινη ψυχή και υπόσταση.
«Το γέλιο μου ήταν σιωπηλό και υστερικό, ένα βαθύ γέλιο σαν λυγμός…».
«Συνείδηση, είπες;όχι βλακείες τώρα.είσαι πολύ φτωχός για να έχεις συνείδηση».
Διαβάστε το !!!
Καλή ανάγνωση.
Πολλούς ασπασμούς.
Τρομακτική αλληλεπίδραση σωματική και πνευματική.
Ολα τα μυστήρια του μυαλού και της ψυχής σε ένα εξαθλιωμένο αντρικό κορμί που πεινάει αλλά ποτε δεν παύει να ειναι πονόψυχος, ευγενικός,τίμιος και υπερήφανος ξεπερνώντας τα όρια της υπερβολής.
Ο ήρωας μας ειναι ένας διανοούμενος φτωχός και ανώνυμος ανθρωπάκος που περιφέρεται σε διαφορα σημεία της πόλης ζώντας σε φτωχικά και εξαθλιωμένα ενοικιαζόμενα δωμάτια και γραφοντας άρθρα ή διηγήματα με σκοπό να τα εκδώσει σε κάποια τοπική εφημερίδα και να κερδίσει τα ελάχιστα χρήματα που του χρειάζονται για να επιβιώσει.
«Βρίσκομαι λοιπόν τώρα σε ένα πολύ σημαντικό σημείο της αλληγορίας, εκείνο της πυρκαγιάς σε ένα βιβλιοπωλείο…Ήθελα ακριβώς να εκφράσω με βαθυστόχαστο τρόπο την ιδέα πως δεν ήταν βιβλία αυτά που καίγονταν αλλά ήταν μυαλά, ανθρώπινα μυαλά, και ήθελα να περιγράψω μια πραγματική Νύχτα Αγίου Βαρθολομαίου με αυτό το κάψιμο των μυαλών».
Όμως ολα έρχονται ανάποδα. Τα πάντα συνομωτούν εναντίον αυτής της τρυφερής ψυχής που παλεύει με όλο του το ειναι,με μια πεισματική ακατανίκητη επιθυμία να ζήσει αξιοπρεπώς -αυτό μόνο ζητάει-και να δώσει μαθήματα ανθρωπιάς και συμπόνι��ς σε μια απαξιωμένη κοινωνία.
Έτσι,μετα απο κάθε αποτυχία, κάθε ειρωνεία της τύχης που τον έχει σημαδέψει,κάθε απογοήτευση που τον χτυπάει ανελέητα και του σπαράζει κυριολεκτικά το σώμα αλλα κυρίως την αθωότητα και την αγνή του περηφάνεια, επιστρέφει χορτασμένος απογοήτευση,εξάντληση και πείνα στο παγωμένο και σκοτεινό κατάλυμα του.
Όταν οριακά παλεύει μεταξύ φθοράς και αφθαρσίας, με αιχμηρό χιούμορ και συγκινητικό αυτοσαρκασμό ανακαλύπτει μια νότα αισιοδοξίας και ελπίδας και τότε νιώθει ευγνώμων,ονειρεύεται, μετανιώνει που καταράστηκε την εγκατάλειψη του απο Θεό και ανθρώπους και συνεχίζει τον αγώνα του λιμού ενάντια στην ανθρώπινη ψυχή και υπόσταση.
«Το γέλιο μου ήταν σιωπηλό και υστερικό, ένα βαθύ γέλιο σαν λυγμός…».
«Συνείδηση, είπες;όχι βλακείες τώρα.είσαι πολύ φτωχός για να έχεις συνείδηση».
Διαβάστε το !!!
Καλή ανάγνωση.
Πολλούς ασπασμούς.
November 15, 2021
Szczerze doceniam. Książka wybitnie nie moja
April 2, 2012
Discombobulated…frenzied…distracted…rambling…and oh so BRILLIANT.
Knut Hamsun's fevered, stream of consciousness classic is something special. Unwaveringly "in the now," this novel's every word felt as if it had fallen from the narrator's mind, unfiltered, unrestrained, and unreflected upon. Wow, was this something. The unnamed narrator, with his exaggerated and unjustified notions of his own superiority reminded me a lot of Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment, while the disjointed style and unreliable perspective was a subtle cross between Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury and Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. Despite its commonalities with other great works, Hunger, through its unrelenting, unapologetic look at a life, unraveling due to poverty and physical decay, is a singular work all its own.
I was enthralled.
In brief, the story follows the wanderings of a starving writer as he navigates the streets the City of Kristiania (aka Oslo, Norway). He is destitute and his body (and mental faculties) are failing from lack of food. Yet, despite having no employment, no lodging (much of the time), no food (most of the time), and absolutely no money, our protagonist feels himself vastly superior to all those with whom he mingles. His intellect and his skills as a writer earmark him for greatness, and it is only the whims of fate and the enmity of God that have held him back from his rightful place. Thus, a talented, but overly self-entitled man struggles with his lack of success and his want of the necessities of life as he slowly descends into malnutrition-induced madness.
The above doesn't even scratch the surface of this story, but it gives you a decent (hopefully) roadmap of the tale to follow. And what a tale it is.
Not a fictional biography or a period piece, but an amazingly authentic (or so it felt) psychological portrait of the suffering artist. The story of genius, twisted by delusion and crippled by hunger and depravation. It is also a tale of massive, unrestrained Ego, because, like Raskolnikov before him, most of what befalls our main character is the result of his own irrational refusal to acknowledge his lack of superiority. For example, at one point, when hunger has started to transform his visage into something heretofore unrecognized, our protagonist responds to his predicament as follows:
The devil only knew why you had to be turned into a veritable freak just because of hunger! I experienced rage once more, its final flare-up, a spasm…Here I was, with a head on my shoulders without its equal in the whole country, and with a pair of fists, by golly, that could grind the town porter to fine dust, and yet I was turning into a freak from hunger, right here in the city of Kristiania!Yet the idea of begging, or even asking, for help is anathema to him. He needs no help, he will accept no charity.
Well, I hope that ego tastes yummy, my good man, because that self importance is going to be a costly meal.
Even when his circumstances become so dire that he begins to lie, cheat and steal to obtain nourishment and lodging, our man still manages to hold himself out as something singular for not having perpetrated worse actions.
Rotten Patches were beginning to appear in my inner being, black spongy growths that were spreading more and more. And God sat in his heaven keeping a watchful eye on me, making sure that my destruction took place according to all the rules of the game, slowly and steadily, with no letup. But in the pit of hell the devils were raising their hackles in fury because it was taking me such a long time to commit a cardinal sin, an unforgivable sin for which God in his righteousness had to cast me down.God plotting against him, Satan awed by his retraint in the face of such trials, and the world too stupid to recognize his worth. This psychological profile is fascinating stuff.
As maudlin and depressing as the subject matter sounds, Hamsun, to his enormous credit, keeps the story from ever succumbing to bleakness. Part of this is because our narrator remains optimistic and convinced that his plight will resolve itself to his advantage, and part of this is because our narrator will not admit to weakness even inside his own head. Thus we get casual statements like,My hunger was getting rather bad, I felt faint and threw up a bit here and there on the sly. Full stop…open mouth…bulge eyes. When I read that I was stunned. For the hunger-caused deterioration to have reached the point where our narrator was constantly vomiting, and for him to describe it in such a matter of fact tone, completely free of color commentary. That struck me and actually increased the impact of the protagonist's situation on me.
Well done, Mr. Hamsun.
Surprisingly, the story also has many moments of genuine humor. Our main character is so maddened by his privation that he sees conspiracies and persecutions wherever he goes, many of which are explained in hyperbole that comes across as very amusing. Only the combined effort of the world and the heavenly host are able to effectively work to thwart our man's achieving recognition (and money) for his work. Have I mentioned Raskolnikov yet?
I really enjoyed myself reading this. It's not a light read. It requires effort from the reader to maintain connection to the narrative, that jumps from one thought to the next like an amorous rabbit on ginseng, but it's worth it. A wonderfully prosed, engrossing anatomy of a talented, but reality-impaired individual spinning out of control as a result of the debilitating hunger and the concomitant mental and physical deterioration that accompanies it. The introduction to the Penguin edition I read stated that this book is considered the birth of 20th century literature (despite being published in 1890). I can see why.
Finally, I want to give a big, heartfelt thank you to The wise and most noble, Sir Penkevich, without whom I probably would not have come across this amazing story. I owe you one.
4.0 to 4.5 stars. HIGHEST POSSIBLE RECOMMENDATION!.
August 8, 2023
(3, 5) Prozatorul L. C. mi-a vorbit cel dintîi despre romanul lui Hamsun. Mi-a descris imaginea care ajunsese să-i dea coșmaruri: să stai pe treptele une biserici, să mori de foame, să tremuri, să delirezi din pricina slăbiciunii, și nimeni să nu-ți întindă măcar o coajă de pîine, nimeni-nimeni. Asta înseamnă o lume din care Dumnezeu s-a retras.
Personajul lui K. H. mi-a adus aminte, imediat, de omul din subterană al lui Dostoievski. Același amestec de umilință și trufie, de exaltare și depresie, de resemnare și insolență, de suferință și impulsivitate, de bunătate și dorință de a-l jigni gratuit pe celălalt: „Deodată mi-a venit ideea să fiu deosebit de obraznic...” (p.27).
Și tot ca în Însemnări din subterană, protagonistul întîlnește o femeie, Maria (la Dostoievski se numea Liza), la fel de flămîndă ca el, la fel de singură și dezorientată. Nu știm dacă este sau nu o femeie de stradă. Bărbatul nu găsește nimic altceva mai nimerit decît să-i țină un interminabil discurs despre Principii, după care îi recomandă, ca Iisus Christos odinioară, „să se ducă acasă şi să nu mai păcătuiască de aici înainte”.
După acest discurs aiuritor, își freacă mîinile și-și zice satisfăcut de „isprava” lui: „Cît de plăcut e să faci fapte bune! Poate că i-am dat acelei fiinţe decăzute un prim impuls ca să se ridice din nou, ceea ce ar putea fi hotărîtor pentru întreaga ei viaţă, îmi va mulţumi cînd se va gîndi la asta; pînă şi în ceasul morţii îşi va aduce aminte de mine cu inima plină de recunoştinţă” (p.103).
În opinia mea, sugestia cărții lui Hamsun este că, în împrejurări extreme, nu ajunge să fii inocent pentru a fi și a rămîne om. Inocența omului nu rezistă prea mult. Și nici omul odată cu ea...
Personajul lui K. H. mi-a adus aminte, imediat, de omul din subterană al lui Dostoievski. Același amestec de umilință și trufie, de exaltare și depresie, de resemnare și insolență, de suferință și impulsivitate, de bunătate și dorință de a-l jigni gratuit pe celălalt: „Deodată mi-a venit ideea să fiu deosebit de obraznic...” (p.27).
Și tot ca în Însemnări din subterană, protagonistul întîlnește o femeie, Maria (la Dostoievski se numea Liza), la fel de flămîndă ca el, la fel de singură și dezorientată. Nu știm dacă este sau nu o femeie de stradă. Bărbatul nu găsește nimic altceva mai nimerit decît să-i țină un interminabil discurs despre Principii, după care îi recomandă, ca Iisus Christos odinioară, „să se ducă acasă şi să nu mai păcătuiască de aici înainte”.
După acest discurs aiuritor, își freacă mîinile și-și zice satisfăcut de „isprava” lui: „Cît de plăcut e să faci fapte bune! Poate că i-am dat acelei fiinţe decăzute un prim impuls ca să se ridice din nou, ceea ce ar putea fi hotărîtor pentru întreaga ei viaţă, îmi va mulţumi cînd se va gîndi la asta; pînă şi în ceasul morţii îşi va aduce aminte de mine cu inima plină de recunoştinţă” (p.103).
În opinia mea, sugestia cărții lui Hamsun este că, în împrejurări extreme, nu ajunge să fii inocent pentru a fi și a rămîne om. Inocența omului nu rezistă prea mult. Și nici omul odată cu ea...
October 26, 2017
What is it that differentiates dignity from stubbornness?
Moral rectitude from pride?
Attitude. Intention. Motivation.
Knut Hamsun’s autobiographical novella explores the tenuous line that separates the iron will from the almost obsession of an aspiring writer who refuses to give way to the silent pressure of a dehumanized society that insists on nullifying his efforts to earn his living through his writing.
The protagonist is a nameless narrator who seldom raises sympathy from an estranged reader because he seems to be the source of all his misery and keeps on refusing help that is not merited by what he considers honest means – in his standards, composing high quality articles.
Such apparently scrupulous moral values collide violently with the fastidious nature of this dubious individual. He is vengeful, arrogant and self-righteous; a narcissist, a masochist who grovels in self-pity one moment and is inexplicably ecstatic the next, spurred by his unappreciated worthiness as an artist of the word. Is it delusion or outstanding genius that rules his erratic actions?
Presented in four fragmented chapters, the dramatic spectrum of Knut’s setting contrasts with the acerbic humor displayed by the unattractive narrator, and there is a cyclical pattern in the manifestations of both shown always in the same order: jocularity that go hand in hand with relative economic stability at the beginning of each section and a galloping downfall towards uttermost penury that almost ends by the protagonist’s death from prolonged periods of starvation to close each part.
Kristiana, the Norwegian city, opens and closes the story and remains the impassible spectator of the tribulations of this individual and the silent prosecutor of his fate, echoing authors like Rodenbach, Camus or Kafka who depicted alienation amidst an indifferent society using the modernistic hues of symbolism, surrealism and existentialist doctrines.
At the end of the last chapter, the reader has followed the histrionic ups and downs of a man who has stopped being ashamed of his poverty, a man who has suffered a subtle but ongoing transformation and defeated his physical needs, his craving for acceptance and social recognition. He always arrives late, the clock mocks him, but he tries and tries and tries again, almost in Sisyphean effort. Extreme hunger hasn’t killed him, cold and permanent dampness hasn’t frozen his spirit, repeated rejection hasn’t diminished his self-esteem. Contrarily, the extremity of his degradation has given free rein to his creative drive, and the hunger to write, the lust to compose is what has kept him alive, what has finally set him free.
I stare at the cover illustration of my edition, Edvard Munch’s “Anxiety”, and ponder about the real horrors of existence. It might be better to embrace loneliness as one of the predominant states in human nature than to sell one’s soul for the superficial acceptance of the faceless multitude that silently marches off towards the comfortable palace of invisibility. But, is it?
Moral rectitude from pride?
Attitude. Intention. Motivation.
Knut Hamsun’s autobiographical novella explores the tenuous line that separates the iron will from the almost obsession of an aspiring writer who refuses to give way to the silent pressure of a dehumanized society that insists on nullifying his efforts to earn his living through his writing.
The protagonist is a nameless narrator who seldom raises sympathy from an estranged reader because he seems to be the source of all his misery and keeps on refusing help that is not merited by what he considers honest means – in his standards, composing high quality articles.
Such apparently scrupulous moral values collide violently with the fastidious nature of this dubious individual. He is vengeful, arrogant and self-righteous; a narcissist, a masochist who grovels in self-pity one moment and is inexplicably ecstatic the next, spurred by his unappreciated worthiness as an artist of the word. Is it delusion or outstanding genius that rules his erratic actions?
Presented in four fragmented chapters, the dramatic spectrum of Knut’s setting contrasts with the acerbic humor displayed by the unattractive narrator, and there is a cyclical pattern in the manifestations of both shown always in the same order: jocularity that go hand in hand with relative economic stability at the beginning of each section and a galloping downfall towards uttermost penury that almost ends by the protagonist’s death from prolonged periods of starvation to close each part.
Kristiana, the Norwegian city, opens and closes the story and remains the impassible spectator of the tribulations of this individual and the silent prosecutor of his fate, echoing authors like Rodenbach, Camus or Kafka who depicted alienation amidst an indifferent society using the modernistic hues of symbolism, surrealism and existentialist doctrines.
At the end of the last chapter, the reader has followed the histrionic ups and downs of a man who has stopped being ashamed of his poverty, a man who has suffered a subtle but ongoing transformation and defeated his physical needs, his craving for acceptance and social recognition. He always arrives late, the clock mocks him, but he tries and tries and tries again, almost in Sisyphean effort. Extreme hunger hasn’t killed him, cold and permanent dampness hasn’t frozen his spirit, repeated rejection hasn’t diminished his self-esteem. Contrarily, the extremity of his degradation has given free rein to his creative drive, and the hunger to write, the lust to compose is what has kept him alive, what has finally set him free.
I stare at the cover illustration of my edition, Edvard Munch’s “Anxiety”, and ponder about the real horrors of existence. It might be better to embrace loneliness as one of the predominant states in human nature than to sell one’s soul for the superficial acceptance of the faceless multitude that silently marches off towards the comfortable palace of invisibility. But, is it?
April 19, 2020
Tengo debilidad por este tipo de personajes y más cuando están narrados, como esta, en primera persona, no es extraño que me haya gustado tanto la novela.
Hamsun consigue de forma admirable nuestra adhesión al personaje, nuestra compasión por este ser tan infantil, tan inmaduro, tan inocente en su solitaria y menesterosa situación. Lo que no quita que también nos ponga un poquito nerviosos con sus inútiles arranques de quijotesca generosidad autocomplaciente, su idealismo, la visión romántica y brillante que tiene de sí mismo y que le aboca a la situación en la que vive y de cuya responsabilidad declina rabiosamente. Dan ganas de cogerle de los hombros y agitarlo para ver si se mueve dentro de él un poco los fundamentos de su masoquista inclinación a la culpa y al autocastigo, su capacidad mistificadora de oprobios. Pero, sobre todo, nos afligimos con él.
Y nos afligimos con él porque somos residentes de una cárcel parecida, de una cárcel de la que no podemos escapar: no podemos dejar de ser nosotros mismos. Y esto es en gran parte, la tesis del libro.
Hamsun consigue de forma admirable nuestra adhesión al personaje, nuestra compasión por este ser tan infantil, tan inmaduro, tan inocente en su solitaria y menesterosa situación. Lo que no quita que también nos ponga un poquito nerviosos con sus inútiles arranques de quijotesca generosidad autocomplaciente, su idealismo, la visión romántica y brillante que tiene de sí mismo y que le aboca a la situación en la que vive y de cuya responsabilidad declina rabiosamente. Dan ganas de cogerle de los hombros y agitarlo para ver si se mueve dentro de él un poco los fundamentos de su masoquista inclinación a la culpa y al autocastigo, su capacidad mistificadora de oprobios. Pero, sobre todo, nos afligimos con él.
Y nos afligimos con él porque somos residentes de una cárcel parecida, de una cárcel de la que no podemos escapar: no podemos dejar de ser nosotros mismos. Y esto es en gran parte, la tesis del libro.
“La locura se apodera rabiosa de mi cerebro y yo se lo permito, soy muy consciente de que estoy sometido a influencias sobre las que no tengo ningún control”Estamos presos de nuestro temperamento, de nuestro carácter, de nuestras capacidades, de nuestros esquemas mentales, no siempre reconocibles, de nuestras pulsiones interiores, no siempre conscientes y, por tanto y a menudo, fuera de nuestro control. No siempre sabemos por qué sentimos lo que sentimos, por qué de repente cambia ese sentimiento, por qué nos arrepentimos tan pronto de reacciones que nos parecieron tan adecuadas en su momento, por qué reaccionamos de la manera que lo hacemos, de forma tan impropia, llegamos a pensar, de nosotros mismos. Como al protagonista sin nombre de la novela, parece que es el mero azar, la pura aleatoriedad mental, la que protagoniza en ocasiones nuestra psique. No controlamos nuestro destino. Nos engañamos, nos mentimos, nos justificamos. Pobres de nosotros.
“He hecho un intento de escribir… un libro sobre las delicadas oscilaciones de una vulnerable alma humana, sobre esa extraña vida de la mente, sobre los misterios de los nervios en un cuerpo consumido por el hambre.”
February 12, 2016
حسنًا، هي رواية أخرى من تلك الروايات الجنونية المرعبة
الرواية بأكملها أشبه بحالة من الهذيان!
تشعر وكأنك تقفز بين السطور بسرعة جنونية
كلّ فصل هو رحلة معاناة تلهث فيها مع البطل ولا تستطيع التوقف للحظة واحدة حتى نهاية الرحلة/الفصل
حينها ما تلبث أن تتوقف لتسترد أنفاسك حتى تبدأ رحلة جديدة وفصل جديد لا تستطيع منع نفسك من الخوض فيهما
هنا لا يتحدث عن الجوع بل عن تأثيره
يعكس من خلال بطل روايته صورة مرعبة عن تأثير الجوع والفقر
كيف وضعه في حالة من الوهن الدائم والضعف والهزال، بوجه وجسد مرعب لا يمت للبشر بصلة
وحالة نفسية تجعله هش كأوراق الشجر الخريفية، يبكي لأبسط الأشياء ويضحك في مواقف لا تتحمل الضحك
حالة لا متناهية من الخبل والهذيان، بين التضرع لله حينًا والكفر بوجوده حينًا آخر
يسير في الطرقات يحدث نفسه يضحك معها ويبكي بسببها ويُبكيها
يرتكب الحماقات، يؤذي الناس لا لشيء سوى تفريغ معاناته، ويساعدهم حينًا ولو على حساب نفسه فيزيد من معاناته
كيف يمكن أن تولد من كلّ هذه المعاناة إبداع ما في الوقت الذي لا يستطيع فيه من شدة الجوع التفكير ولو لحظة في مادة المقال وإذا أوحى إليه القدر بفكرة يضطر لربط يديه ليتمكن من الكتابة
وماذا عن المبادئ؟
فلتذهب المبادئ إلى الجحيم
إما أن يبيعها ليسد جوعه، وإما سيتركه الجوع يلتهم مبادئه أو تلتهمه هي
الجوع والفقر هما أقذر شيء يمكن أن يمرّ به الإنسان
يُجرد من إنسانيته ويصبح بلا احترام ولا كرامة ولا مبادئ
ربما هو ذاته يكره نفسه ويحتقرها
رواية مرعبة، لأنها تجعلك تضع نفسك مكان بطلها
كيف سيكون عليك تحمل كلّ هذه المعاناة والجوع الذي يجعلك تقضم أصابعك وتفكر في آكلها
يجعلك تبلع ريقك عشرات المرات حتى يجف حلقك
مُرعبة، لكنها ستجعلك تفكرّ بشكل أفضل
بشكل مختلف :)
تمّت
August 23, 2016
I did not feel anything while reading this novel.
Well, this is not strictly true. What I mean is that I felt no pity, no compassion, no sorrow, no empathy, while following the struggles, the penuries, the poverty, the deprivation, the hunger, of the nameless protagonist.
My feelings were not of the humanitarian type, but of the literary.
I was astonished at the literary proposal Hamsun had written in what was still the nineteenth century. The ‘flâneur’ existence of the narrator made me think of Baudelaire, but this is no gentleman who idly strolls an urban landscape. Hamsun’s man is certainly urban; he is a writer, a journalist really. But he is prey to an anxiety and to his own excruciating self-examination. His poverty places him on the opposite side of dandy. But he is very modern too; just another epitome of modernity. The author’s ability to develop this character in all his plight without making me feel any commiseration for the stroller, astounded me. Very different writing from a nineteenth century naturalist depiction of poverty to provoke the reader's or viewer's emotions.
Rather, I felt admiration for this man who is in a continuous and desperate need of nourishment, manages, however, to keep his spirits up and who, when encountering any little surprise or sparkle, is even capable of feeling exhilaration quickly forgetting that he is in dire straits. The absence of social analysis or criticism, and the character’s moral dignity distances him from any portrayal as a victim. There is humour too, and this has the effect of letting tension dissolve - but only at intervals, before it builds up again. And as this anonymous person also has inclination to web lies around his existence, to no purpose, just to avoid anyone getting too close to him – whether this is another fictional character, or the reader--, he remains elusive.
No, I could not feel pity for him.
The hunger he feels seems part of his nature, for even when he manages to swallow some food, his body cannot take it and he vomits it and expels it out of his system. Feeling hungry is not something that happens to him, but is his mode of existence.
That is, until he gets tired of this, and leaves.
And I am left in literary perplexity.
*******
I used the edition translated by Sverre Lyngstad. He has also included an essay on the Translation issues as well as a comparative table of terms in this edition.
This is the one I would recommend.
September 15, 2015
Last night the “fog” finally left me as effortlessly as it had arrived seven months ago. My mourning period was now officially over, although the good memories would be firmly entrenched forever in my mind, as well as the sad ones. I shed my widow’s weeds. Also the tears surprisingly enough poured for the first time in ages. I certainly do not have a weak character. I had been in the doldrums and was not progressing, nor “turning the page”. Knut showed me via “Hunger” (Norwegian: “Sult”) that one has to continue with life regardless; forget hunger, forget the dark shadows, the periods of feeling sorry for oneself, just survive, continue on regardless whatever happens, for life has given you another chance and another adventure to pursue. So grab it and forge with speed into the sunlight. I’m sure as I look down the valley to the backdrop of my beloved Pyrenean mountain range and the Pic d’Ani that they would agree wholeheartedly with me, as would my husband John.
I do believe in serendipity, as well as destiny and I do believe that I was meant to read this book. I had read Steve’s and Rakhi’s reviews a while back but to me they were purely excellent reviews as so many are on Goodreads. But then suddenly another review appeared and it affected me for some singular reason. Perhaps I had to read it?
Upon reading the first paragraph, I was hooked and ready for this wonderful literary journey:
It was during the time I wondered about and starved in Christiania; Christiania, singular city, from which no man departs without carrying away the traces of his sojourn there.
And did that indeed prove to be the case.
This book is such a mixed bag of philosophical and multi-faceted reveries, vagaries and ideas. Our unnamed narrator (why would an author want to leave a narrator without a name? I’ve never understood that) runs the gamut of every conceivable emotion:
Anger, aversion, courage, dejection, desire, despair, fear, hate, hope, love, sadness. (M.B. Arnold 1996)
The average individual with a good job will never know about hunger. Imagine going without food for two or three days because there’s no money to purchase even a loaf of bread and finally drinking water, which causes the individual to retch.
Imagine, even when on your uppers as in the case of our author, you are so convinced of your literary aspirations that you persevere regardless, even though you have nowhere to live, as there’s no money to pay the rent; finally losing the one pencil you own and so thus being unable to write an article for “Commodore”, the narrator’s lifeline for survival.
Imagine feeling desire and lust for a woman when your clothes are in rags but nevertheless wanting to pursue it through to the utter end.
Imagine feeling so frustrated with yourself that you succumb to anger and hold inner conflicting arguments and discussions and even wonder if you are becoming insane.
Imagine crawling back to a lodging house, even though the thought humiliates you, when the pregnant landlady has already thrown you out for not paying your rent.
Imagine lying so that people will still think that you are working and finally, imagine being so convinced of your own writing ability that you continue and continue but when finally… Well that is for you the reader to find out.
There are so many excellent sections in here in which to quote but if I did that I would indeed be quoting the entire book. However, I have to add the following:
There is an amazing section when “Commodore”, who has accepted articles/essays from the narrator in the past, who upon seeing the latter staggering due to lack of food, gives him half-a sovereign. He’s certainly clever and that’s for sure as he knows that a good article will eventually be forthcoming from our narrator.
The humility of our narrator upon this act:
I was left standing on the pavement, gazing after him. I wept quietly and silently. “I never saw the like!” I said to myself. “He gave me half-a-sovereign.” I walked back and placed myself where he had stood, imitated all his movements, held the half-sovereign up to my moistened eyes, inspected it on both side, and began to swear – to swear at the top of my voice, that there was no manner of doubt that what I held in my hand was a half-sovereign.
When I came across “Ylajali”, I assumed in ignorance this was the name of the woman who the narrator was facing and for whom he felt such desire:
I stand and gaze into her eyes, and hit, on the spur of the moment, on a name which I have never heard before — a name with a gliding, nervous sound — Ylajali!
I was fascinated by this name. It appeared to be so exotic but with a Yiddish ring to it. I researched into it and found:
The name is not only a symbolic substitute for the desired woman. It is also a symbol of desire itself – considered in the Lacanian sense of a drive sustained by lack, sliding from element to element in the chain of symbolic substitutes, and which can never be fulfilled without losing its character of being desire: Y-la-ja-li
Although “Hunger” proved to be a sensation upon publication, many individuals objected to him. Firstly Knut Hamsun was an unknown quantity and was:
a true scion of the best old peasant stock. Through the impressions of his childhood and early youth he became affiliated with the volatile race of Nordland, a people as alien from the heavier inland peasant as if they lived on different continents. The fishermen who play with death for the wealth of the sea and depend for their livelihood on the caprices of nature do not easily harden into traditional moulds. Childish and improvident, witty and sentimental, often fond of the melodramatic, simple and yet shrewd, superstitious but brave beyond all praise, the native of Nordland is a type unlike every other Norwegian. Wherever he may roam, he will yearn for the wonderland of his youth…as from the nature of Nordland with its alternations of melting loveliness and stark gloom that he drew his poetic inspiration.
During his second stay in America, between 1886 and 1888, he worked as a navvy and for nine months as a tramconductor in Chicago. He was known for his habit of reading Aristotle and Euripides between stops. He was very poor and weathered the deep winter of Chicago by wearing newspaper under his clothes; his colleagues liked to touch him to make him crackle..
Our author was a true wanderer throughout his life and perhaps probably due to this, he learned humility and all those other good aspects that make up our lives as human beings.
I really admire this author and am so delighted that I’ve read this remarkable book. For me there’s something special about Norwegian authors that manages to touch my psyche. Is it the weather that brings such incredible richness to these Norwegian works? I really don’t know. Purely one of the wonders of our life on this remarkable planet, Earth, I guess.
And finally, my special thanks to Will for helping me out of the “fog”.
I do believe in serendipity, as well as destiny and I do believe that I was meant to read this book. I had read Steve’s and Rakhi’s reviews a while back but to me they were purely excellent reviews as so many are on Goodreads. But then suddenly another review appeared and it affected me for some singular reason. Perhaps I had to read it?
Upon reading the first paragraph, I was hooked and ready for this wonderful literary journey:
It was during the time I wondered about and starved in Christiania; Christiania, singular city, from which no man departs without carrying away the traces of his sojourn there.
And did that indeed prove to be the case.
This book is such a mixed bag of philosophical and multi-faceted reveries, vagaries and ideas. Our unnamed narrator (why would an author want to leave a narrator without a name? I’ve never understood that) runs the gamut of every conceivable emotion:
Anger, aversion, courage, dejection, desire, despair, fear, hate, hope, love, sadness. (M.B. Arnold 1996)
The average individual with a good job will never know about hunger. Imagine going without food for two or three days because there’s no money to purchase even a loaf of bread and finally drinking water, which causes the individual to retch.
Imagine, even when on your uppers as in the case of our author, you are so convinced of your literary aspirations that you persevere regardless, even though you have nowhere to live, as there’s no money to pay the rent; finally losing the one pencil you own and so thus being unable to write an article for “Commodore”, the narrator’s lifeline for survival.
Imagine feeling desire and lust for a woman when your clothes are in rags but nevertheless wanting to pursue it through to the utter end.
Imagine feeling so frustrated with yourself that you succumb to anger and hold inner conflicting arguments and discussions and even wonder if you are becoming insane.
Imagine crawling back to a lodging house, even though the thought humiliates you, when the pregnant landlady has already thrown you out for not paying your rent.
Imagine lying so that people will still think that you are working and finally, imagine being so convinced of your own writing ability that you continue and continue but when finally… Well that is for you the reader to find out.
There are so many excellent sections in here in which to quote but if I did that I would indeed be quoting the entire book. However, I have to add the following:
There is an amazing section when “Commodore”, who has accepted articles/essays from the narrator in the past, who upon seeing the latter staggering due to lack of food, gives him half-a sovereign. He’s certainly clever and that’s for sure as he knows that a good article will eventually be forthcoming from our narrator.
The humility of our narrator upon this act:
I was left standing on the pavement, gazing after him. I wept quietly and silently. “I never saw the like!” I said to myself. “He gave me half-a-sovereign.” I walked back and placed myself where he had stood, imitated all his movements, held the half-sovereign up to my moistened eyes, inspected it on both side, and began to swear – to swear at the top of my voice, that there was no manner of doubt that what I held in my hand was a half-sovereign.
When I came across “Ylajali”, I assumed in ignorance this was the name of the woman who the narrator was facing and for whom he felt such desire:
I stand and gaze into her eyes, and hit, on the spur of the moment, on a name which I have never heard before — a name with a gliding, nervous sound — Ylajali!
I was fascinated by this name. It appeared to be so exotic but with a Yiddish ring to it. I researched into it and found:
The name is not only a symbolic substitute for the desired woman. It is also a symbol of desire itself – considered in the Lacanian sense of a drive sustained by lack, sliding from element to element in the chain of symbolic substitutes, and which can never be fulfilled without losing its character of being desire: Y-la-ja-li
Although “Hunger” proved to be a sensation upon publication, many individuals objected to him. Firstly Knut Hamsun was an unknown quantity and was:
a true scion of the best old peasant stock. Through the impressions of his childhood and early youth he became affiliated with the volatile race of Nordland, a people as alien from the heavier inland peasant as if they lived on different continents. The fishermen who play with death for the wealth of the sea and depend for their livelihood on the caprices of nature do not easily harden into traditional moulds. Childish and improvident, witty and sentimental, often fond of the melodramatic, simple and yet shrewd, superstitious but brave beyond all praise, the native of Nordland is a type unlike every other Norwegian. Wherever he may roam, he will yearn for the wonderland of his youth…as from the nature of Nordland with its alternations of melting loveliness and stark gloom that he drew his poetic inspiration.
During his second stay in America, between 1886 and 1888, he worked as a navvy and for nine months as a tramconductor in Chicago. He was known for his habit of reading Aristotle and Euripides between stops. He was very poor and weathered the deep winter of Chicago by wearing newspaper under his clothes; his colleagues liked to touch him to make him crackle..
Our author was a true wanderer throughout his life and perhaps probably due to this, he learned humility and all those other good aspects that make up our lives as human beings.
I really admire this author and am so delighted that I’ve read this remarkable book. For me there’s something special about Norwegian authors that manages to touch my psyche. Is it the weather that brings such incredible richness to these Norwegian works? I really don’t know. Purely one of the wonders of our life on this remarkable planet, Earth, I guess.
And finally, my special thanks to Will for helping me out of the “fog”.
October 24, 2015
A review of this book from my pen is akin to injustice. After all, what do I know of hunger? Something that loses its meaning with a hop to the kitchen? A need that vanishes with the stair-climbing to the canteen? A routine that knocks every four hours, only to be dispatched back to its den with a pouring of necessary and unnecessary stuff? A fuel that is available at an arm’s length? A six-lettered word that assumes greater importance in symbolic garb than its bare attire?
I have been fortunate. This beast has not imprisoned me beyond few days. But on those very few days, I have met him. On those few, religious days when I have been compelled to meet him, I have met him. On those unannounced stranded days when a morsel had been a long meeting away, I have met him. In the eyes; stark and dark. And he runs havoc. He gnaws with his sharp paws and he shrieks in his piercing voice, he snaps my nervous tranquilities and he slaps my organ’s functionalities, he throws vile liquids up my throat and he shovels my ideals out of the window.
Probably that is why, I could fathom the emotions running hysterically amok within the unnamed protagonist of this novel, who had only one enemy: hunger. A writer, who likes diving into the inky seas of politics, drama, poetry and recitation on the bed of teeming, blank pages, finds his resources maliciously blackened under the noxious cloud of prolonged hunger. He chews on stale bread and squeezes into abandoned spaces but the beast finds him there. He bites into meatless bones and clutches his stomach under pungent blankets but the beast turns up again. To appease the beast, he devours coarse pieces of wood, mouths half of his shirt’s pockets and licks his own blood but the beast pounds on his doors again, and again, and again; without rest, without pause, in harrowing ferocity, in towering intimidation.
Having subjected it to numerous tests with nil fallacy, I am assured of the accuracy of this lesson and hence, the sight of our protagonist preserving his self-respect at the cost of handing his inhumanly underfed body, a sentence of further abjuration, left a restorative smile on my face. He keeps his skin of honesty wrapped tight to his resilient heart, despite the shrinking and eventual shedding of external clothing in lieu of a token crumb to humour the raging beast. And almost logically but irregularly, the beast accepts taming when the halo from that resilient heart assumes indomitable magnificence, blind-folding it in layers of goodness, humour, affection, companionship and praise for the creator.
The breadth of this work expands in multidimensional plains of psychology and multifarious schemas of sociology, effecting an amalgamation of astounding inferences that can be picked at every small juncture of the alleys running in human psyche; I cannot credit Hamsun enough for his surgical precision in uncovering the human mind and segregating his nervous dynamics, keeping the black and white in their birth colors, diluting none and awarding credit for the role each one plays.
Hamsun was considered to be often skewed towards an asocial vision, alienating tendencies and isolated ways of life. But perhaps it is essential to understand the asocial knot to thread the social yarn; much like the shadows retreating behind opaque patches for the sunshine to melt and clear the vision.
I do not wish the fate of our protagonist to anyone. But if you stumble upon one, exhibit some chivalry, sensitivity and measured humour – the proven sedatives for the beast.
I have been fortunate. This beast has not imprisoned me beyond few days. But on those very few days, I have met him. On those few, religious days when I have been compelled to meet him, I have met him. On those unannounced stranded days when a morsel had been a long meeting away, I have met him. In the eyes; stark and dark. And he runs havoc. He gnaws with his sharp paws and he shrieks in his piercing voice, he snaps my nervous tranquilities and he slaps my organ’s functionalities, he throws vile liquids up my throat and he shovels my ideals out of the window.
Probably that is why, I could fathom the emotions running hysterically amok within the unnamed protagonist of this novel, who had only one enemy: hunger. A writer, who likes diving into the inky seas of politics, drama, poetry and recitation on the bed of teeming, blank pages, finds his resources maliciously blackened under the noxious cloud of prolonged hunger. He chews on stale bread and squeezes into abandoned spaces but the beast finds him there. He bites into meatless bones and clutches his stomach under pungent blankets but the beast turns up again. To appease the beast, he devours coarse pieces of wood, mouths half of his shirt’s pockets and licks his own blood but the beast pounds on his doors again, and again, and again; without rest, without pause, in harrowing ferocity, in towering intimidation.
It is as if a score of diminutive gnome-like insects set their heads on one side and gnawed for a little, then laid their heads on the other side and gnawed a little more, then lay quite still for a moment’s space, and then began afresh, boring noiselessly in, and without any haste, and left empty spaces everywhere after them as they went on.However, despite this unbearable burden of abject poverty and indeterminate survival, he releases episodes into his life that brings one of the foremost teachings of my father, rushing to my mind. My baba, as I address him, maintained that one can live without food for days, without peace for hours and without air for minutes but one cannot live without dignity and self-respect for even a second.
Having subjected it to numerous tests with nil fallacy, I am assured of the accuracy of this lesson and hence, the sight of our protagonist preserving his self-respect at the cost of handing his inhumanly underfed body, a sentence of further abjuration, left a restorative smile on my face. He keeps his skin of honesty wrapped tight to his resilient heart, despite the shrinking and eventual shedding of external clothing in lieu of a token crumb to humour the raging beast. And almost logically but irregularly, the beast accepts taming when the halo from that resilient heart assumes indomitable magnificence, blind-folding it in layers of goodness, humour, affection, companionship and praise for the creator.
The breadth of this work expands in multidimensional plains of psychology and multifarious schemas of sociology, effecting an amalgamation of astounding inferences that can be picked at every small juncture of the alleys running in human psyche; I cannot credit Hamsun enough for his surgical precision in uncovering the human mind and segregating his nervous dynamics, keeping the black and white in their birth colors, diluting none and awarding credit for the role each one plays.
Hamsun was considered to be often skewed towards an asocial vision, alienating tendencies and isolated ways of life. But perhaps it is essential to understand the asocial knot to thread the social yarn; much like the shadows retreating behind opaque patches for the sunshine to melt and clear the vision.
I do not wish the fate of our protagonist to anyone. But if you stumble upon one, exhibit some chivalry, sensitivity and measured humour – the proven sedatives for the beast.
July 22, 2016
با چه نظمی، با چه حرکت های یکسانی، مدام سراشیب را طی کرده بودم! سرانجام به چنان نحو غریبی از همه چیز عاری شده بودم که دیگر حتی شانه ای نداشتم، حتی کتابی برایم نمانده بود که وقتی زندگی خیلی اندوهگین می شد بخوانم
وقتی کتاب را تمام کردم تنها به فقر و گرسنگی نمی اندیشیدم
بیشتر از آن چیز دیگری فکرم را مشغول کرد؛
ناسپاسی مردمی که ککشان هم نمی گزد چه بر سر نویسنده ها و روشنفکرها می آید
خیلی به خودم فشار آورده بودم، مثل یابوی مردنی که مجبور باشد کشیشی را حمل کند، روز و شب پدر کمر خودم را در آورده بودم، به حدی خوانده بودم که چشم هایم از حدقه در می آمدند، به قدری بی غذایی کشیده بودم که عقل از کله ام می پرید. در عوض چه داشتم؟ حتی دختر خیابانی به درگاه خدا دعا می کرد که او را از دیدن من مصون بدارد
حالا که او از عرش به فرش رسیده؛ می بیند جامعه چه ارزشی برای نویسنده ها قائل است
او را بخاطر فقرش طرد می کنند. با اینحال او انسانی نیست که از کسی گدایی کند
و وقتی تلاش هایش برای پیدا کردن کار و غذا بی اثر می ماند؛
به مرگ می اندیشد
چرا آن همه وقت را تلف کرده بودم، تمام روز به دنبال یک کورون که چند ساعت بیش تر می توانست زنده ام نگه دارد از اینجا به آنجا دویده بودم؟ در واقع مگر بی اهمیت نبود که امر اجتناب ناپذیر یک روز زودتر یا یک روز دیرتر برسد؟
آخر داستان از خودت می پرسی آیا جامعه ما هم اینگونه نیست؟ و با روشنفکرانش رفتاری این چنین ندارد؟
چرا اما خیلی بدتر؛ آنها را بشدت می کوبند
نویسنده ای مثه صادق هدایت را نقد نمی کنند ترور شخصیتی می کنند
!به قول خواننده ای معروف : روزی که صادقو به جرمِ خودکشی کشتن
شاید چیزی که صادق را بیشتر ترغیب به خودکشی کرد همین جامعه اصلاح ناپذیر خودمان بود
انزجارش از جامعه در این جمله اش کاملا مشخص است: همانقدر که ما به سادگی نیاکان خود خندیدیم، روزی می آید که آیندگان به خرافات ما خواهند خندید
وقتی کتاب را تمام کردم تنها به فقر و گرسنگی نمی اندیشیدم
بیشتر از آن چیز دیگری فکرم را مشغول کرد؛
ناسپاسی مردمی که ککشان هم نمی گزد چه بر سر نویسنده ها و روشنفکرها می آید
خیلی به خودم فشار آورده بودم، مثل یابوی مردنی که مجبور باشد کشیشی را حمل کند، روز و شب پدر کمر خودم را در آورده بودم، به حدی خوانده بودم که چشم هایم از حدقه در می آمدند، به قدری بی غذایی کشیده بودم که عقل از کله ام می پرید. در عوض چه داشتم؟ حتی دختر خیابانی به درگاه خدا دعا می کرد که او را از دیدن من مصون بدارد
حالا که او از عرش به فرش رسیده؛ می بیند جامعه چه ارزشی برای نویسنده ها قائل است
او را بخاطر فقرش طرد می کنند. با اینحال او انسانی نیست که از کسی گدایی کند
و وقتی تلاش هایش برای پیدا کردن کار و غذا بی اثر می ماند؛
به مرگ می اندیشد
چرا آن همه وقت را تلف کرده بودم، تمام روز به دنبال یک کورون که چند ساعت بیش تر می توانست زنده ام نگه دارد از اینجا به آنجا دویده بودم؟ در واقع مگر بی اهمیت نبود که امر اجتناب ناپذیر یک روز زودتر یا یک روز دیرتر برسد؟
آخر داستان از خودت می پرسی آیا جامعه ما هم اینگونه نیست؟ و با روشنفکرانش رفتاری این چنین ندارد؟
چرا اما خیلی بدتر؛ آنها را بشدت می کوبند
نویسنده ای مثه صادق هدایت را نقد نمی کنند ترور شخصیتی می کنند
!به قول خواننده ای معروف : روزی که صادقو به جرمِ خودکشی کشتن
شاید چیزی که صادق را بیشتر ترغیب به خودکشی کرد همین جامعه اصلاح ناپذیر خودمان بود
انزجارش از جامعه در این جمله اش کاملا مشخص است: همانقدر که ما به سادگی نیاکان خود خندیدیم، روزی می آید که آیندگان به خرافات ما خواهند خندید
February 24, 2015
راسكولنيكوف آخر؟
لا أعلم لماذا تذكرت راسكولنيكوف هذا، بطل رواية الجريمة والعقاب للمُعلم العظيم؛ فيودور دوستويفسكي، حين شرعت في قراءة هذي الرواية.!
فبمجرد أن قرأت فقط ما يقارب العشر صفحات منها حتى أدركت ذلك، وفعلًا قرأت فيما بعد أن كنوت، نفسه، قد أقر بأنه استلهم قصة بطله هذا من رواية الجريمة والعقاب للحبيب "دوستويفسكي".
قد يرجع هذا لتشابه شخصيتيهما؟ نفس البؤس، نفس الوظيفة، بل، نفس العبقرية؟
ربما
كنوت هَمسون، هذا الروائي الذي، لجهلي، لم أسمع عنه من قبل أبدًا، إلا من فترة يسيرة للغاية، نذرت حينها لله وعدًا بأن أقرأ كل ما كتب، أو على الأقل كل ما ترجم له!
هكذا، وبدون أي مقدمات، استشعرت حين قرأت نبذة سريعة عن حياته بكونه رجل جدير بأن يُقرأ له
واستشرفت فيه كاتبًا عبقريًا- وقبل كل شي- فيلسوفًا عقلاني فذ.
درس كنوت الفلسفة بمختلف فروعها، فله دراية بالوضعية المنطقية، وله علم بفلسفة العلوم، ودرس المنطق وعلوم الطبيعة ودرس كذلك اللاهوت والفلسفة الحديثة
ولعل هذا كان متجليًا واضحًا في شخصية البطل، المثقف، الفقير، الذي يبيع علمه بأبخس الأثمان لمجرد التحصل على العيش، ليتقوت به.
اختار لنا كنوت هنا فكرة عظيمة، دارت حولها روايته كلها، وبنى عليها أس الرواية ككل، وهي الجوع، هذه المشكلة البائسة التي لطالما قضت مضاجع الكثير.
صور لنا كنوت هنا قمة البؤس التي قد تصل إليها حالة الإنسان في أي مجتمع
صور لنا بقدرته الرهيبة ما تمتلئ به دنيانا من فقر وجور بل وجشع أيضًا
صور كذلك النفس البشرية، بكل متناقضاتها، في في شخص البطل هذا
فهو البائس، والغني المترفع، الزاهد والعربيد، الجوعان، والشبع كذلك
ذو الكبرياء الشديد، الذي دفعه أيضًا لشحذ التعاطف من البشر!
البائس الذي يشعر بالفقر والجوع، بل والعوز كذلك، وما إن يحوز على ريال واحد حتى تجده يعطيه لأول شخص يقابله. كل هذه المتناقضات في شخص واحد فقط، هل يعقل هذا!
أشد ما أعجبني في هذه الرواية، ليست القصة البسيطة ولا الحبكة ولا شيء، بل قدرة كنوت على استحضار المشهد ووضع القارئ بين يدي البطل، فهو ينقلك، عن طريق قلمه البديع، لأجواء القصة، فتشعر بأنك ترى البطل بأم عينك، وتجد نفسك تتعاطف معه ومع مصائبه.
البطل المؤمن، والكافر، والثائر على قدره وعلى تقديرات الرب، تجده في حين يستغفر لأبسط ذنب، وفي حين آخر يلعن ويسب السماء والأقدار والترتيبات الإلهية
رواية مليئة بالتناقضات من أولها حتى آخرها، رجل لا يعرف أين تقوده خطاه، ولا يعبأ كذلك بأي شيء، يستجدي العطف ومن ثم يترفع، يشحذ فلس ليأكل ومن ثم يعطيه لمن هو أفقر منه، يجمع كل ما في الإنسان من خبل وتناقض وعبقرية كذلك.
صعقت للغاية عندما علمت بأن بعض هذه الرواية تحوي أحداثًا واقعية من حياة الكاتب، وبأنها سيرة-شبه ذاتية- مما عايشه الكاتب في سفرته لأوزلو/أوسلو/ أو أوشلو بالنرويجية، عاصمة مملكة النرويج.
فلا شك إذن أن العذاب والفقر والمآسي تصنع العبقرية، مثلما هنا ومثلما كان دومًا
رواية متميزة للغاية، أول ما أقرأ لكنوت، وأول ما قرأت في الأدب النرويجي
ولن تكون الأخيرة بالتأكيد.
لا أعلم لماذا تذكرت راسكولنيكوف هذا، بطل رواية الجريمة والعقاب للمُعلم العظيم؛ فيودور دوستويفسكي، حين شرعت في قراءة هذي الرواية.!
فبمجرد أن قرأت فقط ما يقارب العشر صفحات منها حتى أدركت ذلك، وفعلًا قرأت فيما بعد أن كنوت، نفسه، قد أقر بأنه استلهم قصة بطله هذا من رواية الجريمة والعقاب للحبيب "دوستويفسكي".
قد يرجع هذا لتشابه شخصيتيهما؟ نفس البؤس، نفس الوظيفة، بل، نفس العبقرية؟
ربما
كنوت هَمسون، هذا الروائي الذي، لجهلي، لم أسمع عنه من قبل أبدًا، إلا من فترة يسيرة للغاية، نذرت حينها لله وعدًا بأن أقرأ كل ما كتب، أو على الأقل كل ما ترجم له!
هكذا، وبدون أي مقدمات، استشعرت حين قرأت نبذة سريعة عن حياته بكونه رجل جدير بأن يُقرأ له
واستشرفت فيه كاتبًا عبقريًا- وقبل كل شي- فيلسوفًا عقلاني فذ.
درس كنوت الفلسفة بمختلف فروعها، فله دراية بالوضعية المنطقية، وله علم بفلسفة العلوم، ودرس المنطق وعلوم الطبيعة ودرس كذلك اللاهوت والفلسفة الحديثة
ولعل هذا كان متجليًا واضحًا في شخصية البطل، المثقف، الفقير، الذي يبيع علمه بأبخس الأثمان لمجرد التحصل على العيش، ليتقوت به.
اختار لنا كنوت هنا فكرة عظيمة، دارت حولها روايته كلها، وبنى عليها أس الرواية ككل، وهي الجوع، هذه المشكلة البائسة التي لطالما قضت مضاجع الكثير.
صور لنا كنوت هنا قمة البؤس التي قد تصل إليها حالة الإنسان في أي مجتمع
صور لنا بقدرته الرهيبة ما تمتلئ به دنيانا من فقر وجور بل وجشع أيضًا
صور كذلك النفس البشرية، بكل متناقضاتها، في في شخص البطل هذا
فهو البائس، والغني المترفع، الزاهد والعربيد، الجوعان، والشبع كذلك
ذو الكبرياء الشديد، الذي دفعه أيضًا لشحذ التعاطف من البشر!
البائس الذي يشعر بالفقر والجوع، بل والعوز كذلك، وما إن يحوز على ريال واحد حتى تجده يعطيه لأول شخص يقابله. كل هذه المتناقضات في شخص واحد فقط، هل يعقل هذا!
أشد ما أعجبني في هذه الرواية، ليست القصة البسيطة ولا الحبكة ولا شيء، بل قدرة كنوت على استحضار المشهد ووضع القارئ بين يدي البطل، فهو ينقلك، عن طريق قلمه البديع، لأجواء القصة، فتشعر بأنك ترى البطل بأم عينك، وتجد نفسك تتعاطف معه ومع مصائبه.
البطل المؤمن، والكافر، والثائر على قدره وعلى تقديرات الرب، تجده في حين يستغفر لأبسط ذنب، وفي حين آخر يلعن ويسب السماء والأقدار والترتيبات الإلهية
رواية مليئة بالتناقضات من أولها حتى آخرها، رجل لا يعرف أين تقوده خطاه، ولا يعبأ كذلك بأي شيء، يستجدي العطف ومن ثم يترفع، يشحذ فلس ليأكل ومن ثم يعطيه لمن هو أفقر منه، يجمع كل ما في الإنسان من خبل وتناقض وعبقرية كذلك.
صعقت للغاية عندما علمت بأن بعض هذه الرواية تحوي أحداثًا واقعية من حياة الكاتب، وبأنها سيرة-شبه ذاتية- مما عايشه الكاتب في سفرته لأوزلو/أوسلو/ أو أوشلو بالنرويجية، عاصمة مملكة النرويج.
فلا شك إذن أن العذاب والفقر والمآسي تصنع العبقرية، مثلما هنا ومثلما كان دومًا
رواية متميزة للغاية، أول ما أقرأ لكنوت، وأول ما قرأت في الأدب النرويجي
ولن تكون الأخيرة بالتأكيد.
February 9, 2009
Started reading the original Norwegian edition today. I'm fluent in Swedish but don't really know Norwegian, though I have read maybe half a dozen Norwegian books. Comparing with English, it's rather like reading something in broad Scots dialect that's been written down phonetically. Iain Banks fans will be able to relate.
So far, it's pretty good, but I'm only 15 pages into it.
*****************************************************
I come down the main staircase of the hotel. At reception, Zenit, the lovely Indian-Swedish girl, is on duty again. I pause and talk with her. My train isn't until the afternoon. Will it be alright if I sit in the restaurant until it's time to leave? She says it's fine. I feel grateful, she is always very kind. She says that she and her boyfriend are looking for a skiing trip. Maybe they will go to Grenoble. I say I have been there, but only in the summer. It's a nice town. I don't understand why I am telling her this. She wants to know what the skiing is like. She says she won't keep me, I was on my way to get breakfast. She's clearly giving me the brush-off. It hasn't happened before.
At breakfast, the waitress asks what I want. I only take the continental buffet. I think at first that all the bread has gone, but then I find some under a cloth. The toaster hardly even warms it up. As usual, the dial is turned to minimum. I don't dare change the setting, so I run the bread twice; it's still underdone. I sit down and eat it, together with a small bowl of muesli. The view from the window is beautiful, and I watch the tide flowing out in the bay. An elderly couple is walking along the beach, together with their dog. The dog is wearing a red coat. It scampers round them in the wet sand. I go back to my room and pack up my things, then come back down to reception. Zenit gives me the bill, and I hand her my Visa card. I fold up the bill and put it away. Then I notice that it is the hotel's copy. She doesn't want to embarrass me, so she keeps my copy instead without saying anything. I go back to the restaurant with my bags. I think I will take out my laptop and work until lunchtime.
I have things I should be doing, but I log on to GoodReads instead. I'm spending far too much time there. No one has commented on my review of Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator. It wasn't really very funny. The mail I sent to the woman who recommended the Hamsun book has bounced. She has disconnected her account. I hardly knew her, but I feel disquieted by this. I am too restless to work, so I decide to post a review of Christer Kihlman's Dyre Prins. As soon as I have done so, I wonder whether it was a good idea. Maybe I shouldn't have said that I had been moved by the scene with the prostitute. People may think that I patronise prostitutes too. I tell myself that this is ridiculous, but I keep thinking about it. It seems even worse though to edit the review.
I suddenly notice that it is nearly one o'clock. They are evidently not going to open the restaurant for lunch. I should have understood that. I consider going into Newquay and finding a place to eat, but it's too complicated. During the off season, nearly everything will be closed. I write a few mails and chat with some GoodReads friends. Then I go back to reception for the third time. Zenit is still there. She looks surprised, and asks if I have missed my train. I suddenly feel anxious. Maybe I got the time wrong? But no, it is not due for another three quarters of an hour. I ask if she can call a taxi. She does so. I say goodbye and go out to wait for it.
The taxi driver explains why there are no RyanAir flights at the moment. The Newquay airport authorities refused to give the airline a guarantee that the repairs would be finished within three weeks, so RyanAir withdrew flights until the beginning of March. Now they are threatening to sue, since the airport was clearly at fault. I am grateful to the driver for explaining this, and give him a large tip. He doesn't understand why I have done it, but seems happy.
On the train, I take out Hamsun again. I try to read, but I am unable to concentrate. The difference between Swedish and Norwegian is larger than I had remembered, and I often have to guess words. Sometimes there is a whole sentence that makes no sense. I would like to write a witty GoodReads review, but I can't come up with any ideas. I decide that I will just describe what happened to me today.
*****************************************************
Thank God! I've now changed trains, and this new one has food. The cheese, bacon and pickle sandwich I purchased from Café Express was a bit disgusting, but I wolfed it down, together with a mango smoothy. £4.70 well spent.
Hm, Hamsun is, as everyone said, rather good, and it's pleasant to see that my Norwegian is coming back by leaps and bounds. Why was I feeling so negative earlier?
*****************************************************
Not really knowing Norwegian, the way I read the book is to imagine it being read aloud, then listen to it as though it were heavily accented Swedish. This is now working very well. In fact, almost too well... the virtually audible first-person account is quite painful, and I can't read more than a few pages without needing to take a pause. But I feel I'm getting the genuine Hamsun experience, at any rate.
*****************************************************
I am still wondering why I don't find it at all funny. Jessica T, whose opinion I respect, assures me that she finds black humor here. There are things that I see I could find amusing under slightly different circumstances, but I just don't experience them that way. Everything seems unutterably grim and painful. I was so relieved when the narrator got ten kronor for his newspaper piece!
Either my Norwegian still hasn't come back enough (possible), or I am, for some reason, too close to the subject matter. There was indeed a period of two or three days when I was a student, and had somehow contrived through bad planning to run out of both food and money. It was unpleasant and somewhat Hamsunesque, but it didn't last very long, and happened more than 30 years ago. So I wouldn't have thought I'd still be scarred by this experience. Strange!
*****************************************************
Finally got back to this book after an extended vacation reading other stuff... now about two-thirds of the way through. OK, I agree with Jessica: it is quite funny. I think the tone has changed somewhat since the first part. Though my altered perspective may be due to the fact that my eye/ear is now pretty much attuned to the language, which it wasn't at the start. Will have to go back to the beginning when I've finished, and see if I view it differently.
*****************************************************
Finished. It's a pretty scary book. He spares himself, and the reader, nothing... try as I would, I couldn't detach myself from him, his humiliation and descent into madness. He is completely at the mercy of the world. Most of the time he's hungry and desperate, and that's pretty much all he's feeling. But when he gets drunk, that takes him over too, and during the episode with "Ylajali" he's equally overcome by her.
I realized that, when I was about 15 and seriously into chess, I had in fact met someone rather a lot like him. He sometimes visited my chess club; he was the son of an English aristocrat, but was only interested in playing chess, and had been disinherited. He was in his late 20s, was painfully thin, and always wore exactly the same clothes, jeans and a check shirt. I thought he was kind of glamorous, because he'd played in international events (he hadn't done at all well). He said he couldn't concentrate properly in a chess club, because it was too noisy, and asked if I'd like to come back to his place. He told me he'd play without watching the board, and would kill me. I was intrigued.
I turned up at the address he'd given me. He had a single room in a nasty part of town. The place was filthy and almost bare, except for an unmade bed, a table, and a chair or two. I vividly remember a half-empty bottle of milk standing in one corner; it was thick with mold, and looked as though it had been there at least a month. We played a game; he gave me the white pieces, as well as not looking at the board. I had read up a variation in the King's Indian Defense, and it became clear that he didn't know the theory at all. I won easily, but felt disappointed. I'd rather have been amazed by his erratic talent.
I googled him just now, and find nothing at all after 1974, about a year or so after I played him. I fear the worst. But Knut Hamsun clearly survived, and went on to win the Nobel Prize. It's hard to see how, given that Hunger is supposed to be mostly based on true events, and it's even harder to see how he became a huge supporter of the Nazis. Life is very strange.
So far, it's pretty good, but I'm only 15 pages into it.
*****************************************************
I come down the main staircase of the hotel. At reception, Zenit, the lovely Indian-Swedish girl, is on duty again. I pause and talk with her. My train isn't until the afternoon. Will it be alright if I sit in the restaurant until it's time to leave? She says it's fine. I feel grateful, she is always very kind. She says that she and her boyfriend are looking for a skiing trip. Maybe they will go to Grenoble. I say I have been there, but only in the summer. It's a nice town. I don't understand why I am telling her this. She wants to know what the skiing is like. She says she won't keep me, I was on my way to get breakfast. She's clearly giving me the brush-off. It hasn't happened before.
At breakfast, the waitress asks what I want. I only take the continental buffet. I think at first that all the bread has gone, but then I find some under a cloth. The toaster hardly even warms it up. As usual, the dial is turned to minimum. I don't dare change the setting, so I run the bread twice; it's still underdone. I sit down and eat it, together with a small bowl of muesli. The view from the window is beautiful, and I watch the tide flowing out in the bay. An elderly couple is walking along the beach, together with their dog. The dog is wearing a red coat. It scampers round them in the wet sand. I go back to my room and pack up my things, then come back down to reception. Zenit gives me the bill, and I hand her my Visa card. I fold up the bill and put it away. Then I notice that it is the hotel's copy. She doesn't want to embarrass me, so she keeps my copy instead without saying anything. I go back to the restaurant with my bags. I think I will take out my laptop and work until lunchtime.
I have things I should be doing, but I log on to GoodReads instead. I'm spending far too much time there. No one has commented on my review of Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator. It wasn't really very funny. The mail I sent to the woman who recommended the Hamsun book has bounced. She has disconnected her account. I hardly knew her, but I feel disquieted by this. I am too restless to work, so I decide to post a review of Christer Kihlman's Dyre Prins. As soon as I have done so, I wonder whether it was a good idea. Maybe I shouldn't have said that I had been moved by the scene with the prostitute. People may think that I patronise prostitutes too. I tell myself that this is ridiculous, but I keep thinking about it. It seems even worse though to edit the review.
I suddenly notice that it is nearly one o'clock. They are evidently not going to open the restaurant for lunch. I should have understood that. I consider going into Newquay and finding a place to eat, but it's too complicated. During the off season, nearly everything will be closed. I write a few mails and chat with some GoodReads friends. Then I go back to reception for the third time. Zenit is still there. She looks surprised, and asks if I have missed my train. I suddenly feel anxious. Maybe I got the time wrong? But no, it is not due for another three quarters of an hour. I ask if she can call a taxi. She does so. I say goodbye and go out to wait for it.
The taxi driver explains why there are no RyanAir flights at the moment. The Newquay airport authorities refused to give the airline a guarantee that the repairs would be finished within three weeks, so RyanAir withdrew flights until the beginning of March. Now they are threatening to sue, since the airport was clearly at fault. I am grateful to the driver for explaining this, and give him a large tip. He doesn't understand why I have done it, but seems happy.
On the train, I take out Hamsun again. I try to read, but I am unable to concentrate. The difference between Swedish and Norwegian is larger than I had remembered, and I often have to guess words. Sometimes there is a whole sentence that makes no sense. I would like to write a witty GoodReads review, but I can't come up with any ideas. I decide that I will just describe what happened to me today.
*****************************************************
Thank God! I've now changed trains, and this new one has food. The cheese, bacon and pickle sandwich I purchased from Café Express was a bit disgusting, but I wolfed it down, together with a mango smoothy. £4.70 well spent.
Hm, Hamsun is, as everyone said, rather good, and it's pleasant to see that my Norwegian is coming back by leaps and bounds. Why was I feeling so negative earlier?
*****************************************************
Not really knowing Norwegian, the way I read the book is to imagine it being read aloud, then listen to it as though it were heavily accented Swedish. This is now working very well. In fact, almost too well... the virtually audible first-person account is quite painful, and I can't read more than a few pages without needing to take a pause. But I feel I'm getting the genuine Hamsun experience, at any rate.
*****************************************************
I am still wondering why I don't find it at all funny. Jessica T, whose opinion I respect, assures me that she finds black humor here. There are things that I see I could find amusing under slightly different circumstances, but I just don't experience them that way. Everything seems unutterably grim and painful. I was so relieved when the narrator got ten kronor for his newspaper piece!
Either my Norwegian still hasn't come back enough (possible), or I am, for some reason, too close to the subject matter. There was indeed a period of two or three days when I was a student, and had somehow contrived through bad planning to run out of both food and money. It was unpleasant and somewhat Hamsunesque, but it didn't last very long, and happened more than 30 years ago. So I wouldn't have thought I'd still be scarred by this experience. Strange!
*****************************************************
Finally got back to this book after an extended vacation reading other stuff... now about two-thirds of the way through. OK, I agree with Jessica: it is quite funny. I think the tone has changed somewhat since the first part. Though my altered perspective may be due to the fact that my eye/ear is now pretty much attuned to the language, which it wasn't at the start. Will have to go back to the beginning when I've finished, and see if I view it differently.
*****************************************************
Finished. It's a pretty scary book. He spares himself, and the reader, nothing... try as I would, I couldn't detach myself from him, his humiliation and descent into madness. He is completely at the mercy of the world. Most of the time he's hungry and desperate, and that's pretty much all he's feeling. But when he gets drunk, that takes him over too, and during the episode with "Ylajali" he's equally overcome by her.
I realized that, when I was about 15 and seriously into chess, I had in fact met someone rather a lot like him. He sometimes visited my chess club; he was the son of an English aristocrat, but was only interested in playing chess, and had been disinherited. He was in his late 20s, was painfully thin, and always wore exactly the same clothes, jeans and a check shirt. I thought he was kind of glamorous, because he'd played in international events (he hadn't done at all well). He said he couldn't concentrate properly in a chess club, because it was too noisy, and asked if I'd like to come back to his place. He told me he'd play without watching the board, and would kill me. I was intrigued.
I turned up at the address he'd given me. He had a single room in a nasty part of town. The place was filthy and almost bare, except for an unmade bed, a table, and a chair or two. I vividly remember a half-empty bottle of milk standing in one corner; it was thick with mold, and looked as though it had been there at least a month. We played a game; he gave me the white pieces, as well as not looking at the board. I had read up a variation in the King's Indian Defense, and it became clear that he didn't know the theory at all. I won easily, but felt disappointed. I'd rather have been amazed by his erratic talent.
I googled him just now, and find nothing at all after 1974, about a year or so after I played him. I fear the worst. But Knut Hamsun clearly survived, and went on to win the Nobel Prize. It's hard to see how, given that Hunger is supposed to be mostly based on true events, and it's even harder to see how he became a huge supporter of the Nazis. Life is very strange.
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May 8, 2024
PIÙ CHE IL DOLOR POTÉ IL DIGIUNO
La fame raccontata da Hamsun è molto probabilmente parte di un periodo giovanile della sua vita. Anche se c’è da augurarsi mai a queste vette lancinanti.
Ricorda molto l’astinenza da droga, con quell’alternanza di massima spossatezza e momenti di crisi violente, rabbiose, allucinate.
Fin qui lo seguo bene, riesco da bravo lettore a sospendere la mia incredulità.
E continuo a farlo quando descrive il vomito dopo il primo pasto che segue penosi giorni di digiuno forzato e assoluto. A meno da non voler considerare un pasto il masticare trucioli di legno per combattere la fame.
E continuo a farlo quando descrive follia, pazzia, delirio, alternanza di umori, dal rabbioso al prostrato all’entusiasta. Un lungo incubo claustrofobico. Il protagonista narratore è stato giustamente paragonato a un cane randagio nei suoi lunghi vagabondaggi cittadini in preda alla fame e al digiuno.
Faccio invece fatica a sospendere la mia incredulità - anzi, proprio non ci riesco – quando racconta altri episodi: il bacio della signorina sconosciuta, e tutto gli episodi che la riguardano – per quanto sia una figura originale e avvincente; il dono alla bottegaia dei soldi che gli restano per combattere il senso di colpa – convinto d’aver frodato un commerciante, il protagonista non regge il rimorso; si riesce a seguire bene il pudore che blocca dallo stendere il braccio nel classico gesto dell’accattonaggio: ma l’ostinazione di rifiutare ogni offerta per eccesso d’umiltà e di vergogna sconfina abbondantemente nell’abisso della stupidità umana. Tanto più se i rari tentativi di domandare un prestito o altra forma di sostegno sono tutti rivolti a chi negherà ogni aiuto.
Ma soprattutto faccio fatica a mantenere la mia pazienza di lettore con un racconto che ha un’infinità di situazioni identiche che si ripetono, una materia letteraria che secondo me sarebbe meglio contenuta in una novella non più lunga della metà di questo breve romanzo. Che nelle sue attuali dimensioni a me risulta alquanto annacquato proprio dal suo reiterarsi.
Tutto ciò, però, non può annullare quella specie di esplosione che deve essere stata un romanzo su questo argomento centotrenta e passa anni fa, con questo svolgimento, tono, e protagonista. La fame perseguita quest’io-narrante perché vuole dedicarsi alla scrittura, guadagnare il pane con la sua arte letteraria, e non piegarsi a qualsivoglia occupazione retribuita.
Il suo precipitare nella blasfemia - nonostante nella primissima parte si genufletta per una preghiera di ringraziamento, col crescere della fame bestemmia e insulta e rinnega il suo creatore; lo sprofondare nell’abiezione, spirituale piuttosto che morale – su questo versante neppure la fame sa iniettargli intraprendenza, sfodera un garbo che tiene lontanissima ogni parvenza di molestia verbale; la scena in cui rosicchia un osso spolpato, tutto questo ne fa una specie di Giobbe senza fede, e rimanda a un certo “sottosuolo” dostoevskiano.
Tre stelle e mezzo
La fame raccontata da Hamsun è molto probabilmente parte di un periodo giovanile della sua vita. Anche se c’è da augurarsi mai a queste vette lancinanti.
Ricorda molto l’astinenza da droga, con quell’alternanza di massima spossatezza e momenti di crisi violente, rabbiose, allucinate.
Fin qui lo seguo bene, riesco da bravo lettore a sospendere la mia incredulità.
E continuo a farlo quando descrive il vomito dopo il primo pasto che segue penosi giorni di digiuno forzato e assoluto. A meno da non voler considerare un pasto il masticare trucioli di legno per combattere la fame.
E continuo a farlo quando descrive follia, pazzia, delirio, alternanza di umori, dal rabbioso al prostrato all’entusiasta. Un lungo incubo claustrofobico. Il protagonista narratore è stato giustamente paragonato a un cane randagio nei suoi lunghi vagabondaggi cittadini in preda alla fame e al digiuno.
Faccio invece fatica a sospendere la mia incredulità - anzi, proprio non ci riesco – quando racconta altri episodi: il bacio della signorina sconosciuta, e tutto gli episodi che la riguardano – per quanto sia una figura originale e avvincente; il dono alla bottegaia dei soldi che gli restano per combattere il senso di colpa – convinto d’aver frodato un commerciante, il protagonista non regge il rimorso; si riesce a seguire bene il pudore che blocca dallo stendere il braccio nel classico gesto dell’accattonaggio: ma l’ostinazione di rifiutare ogni offerta per eccesso d’umiltà e di vergogna sconfina abbondantemente nell’abisso della stupidità umana. Tanto più se i rari tentativi di domandare un prestito o altra forma di sostegno sono tutti rivolti a chi negherà ogni aiuto.
Ma soprattutto faccio fatica a mantenere la mia pazienza di lettore con un racconto che ha un’infinità di situazioni identiche che si ripetono, una materia letteraria che secondo me sarebbe meglio contenuta in una novella non più lunga della metà di questo breve romanzo. Che nelle sue attuali dimensioni a me risulta alquanto annacquato proprio dal suo reiterarsi.
Tutto ciò, però, non può annullare quella specie di esplosione che deve essere stata un romanzo su questo argomento centotrenta e passa anni fa, con questo svolgimento, tono, e protagonista. La fame perseguita quest’io-narrante perché vuole dedicarsi alla scrittura, guadagnare il pane con la sua arte letteraria, e non piegarsi a qualsivoglia occupazione retribuita.
Il suo precipitare nella blasfemia - nonostante nella primissima parte si genufletta per una preghiera di ringraziamento, col crescere della fame bestemmia e insulta e rinnega il suo creatore; lo sprofondare nell’abiezione, spirituale piuttosto che morale – su questo versante neppure la fame sa iniettargli intraprendenza, sfodera un garbo che tiene lontanissima ogni parvenza di molestia verbale; la scena in cui rosicchia un osso spolpato, tutto questo ne fa una specie di Giobbe senza fede, e rimanda a un certo “sottosuolo” dostoevskiano.
Tre stelle e mezzo
July 5, 2017
"فدع السخافات جانبا! أتقول: الضمير؟ دع هذا السخف، فأنت أفقر من أن يكون لك ضمير. أنت جائع. هذا هو انت."
بهذه الكلمات كان يخاطب نفسه من اجل ان يأكل فقط. وكم يكون صعبا ان يجتمع الجوع والفقر مع الكبرياء وعزة النفس والشرف.
وكلما تقدمت الرواية تنازل اكثر وأكثر.
رفض ان يستدين او يشحد. مع انه يتضور جوعا.
حتى حلت أزمته واكل ببعض النقود التي حصل عليها بجهده.
ولكن هذه النقود انتهت وعاد الى الجوع وهذه المرة اضطر ان يحاول الاستدانة ولكنه يفشل وان يبيع اَي شيء ولا يشحد.
وفِي المرة الثالثة من الجوع يضطر الى الشحاذة وفِي المرة الرابعة يضطر ان يسكت على إهانته وشتيمته .
بالتدريج تنازل عن كبرياءه وشموخه وعزة نفسه فقط ليسد رمقه.
يسير جائعا ولا احد يهتم حتى من كان يعرف انه جائع لم ينظر اليه. ما هذه الحضارة الحديثة التي تهتم بالانسان ورفاهيته ثم لا تعرف ان هناك جائعين لا يستطيعون ان يظهروا ذلك.
تحسبهم أغنياء من التعفف.
من اجمل ما قرأت واروعها
بهذه الكلمات كان يخاطب نفسه من اجل ان يأكل فقط. وكم يكون صعبا ان يجتمع الجوع والفقر مع الكبرياء وعزة النفس والشرف.
وكلما تقدمت الرواية تنازل اكثر وأكثر.
رفض ان يستدين او يشحد. مع انه يتضور جوعا.
حتى حلت أزمته واكل ببعض النقود التي حصل عليها بجهده.
ولكن هذه النقود انتهت وعاد الى الجوع وهذه المرة اضطر ان يحاول الاستدانة ولكنه يفشل وان يبيع اَي شيء ولا يشحد.
وفِي المرة الثالثة من الجوع يضطر الى الشحاذة وفِي المرة الرابعة يضطر ان يسكت على إهانته وشتيمته .
بالتدريج تنازل عن كبرياءه وشموخه وعزة نفسه فقط ليسد رمقه.
يسير جائعا ولا احد يهتم حتى من كان يعرف انه جائع لم ينظر اليه. ما هذه الحضارة الحديثة التي تهتم بالانسان ورفاهيته ثم لا تعرف ان هناك جائعين لا يستطيعون ان يظهروا ذلك.
تحسبهم أغنياء من التعفف.
من اجمل ما قرأت واروعها
July 6, 2020
5 stars for me. I wasn’t prepared for this. I remember a GR friend’s positive review of the book so I decided to read it. I read it in one sitting. I was mesmerized. The writing — it is unbelievably good. Crisp, sharp prose.
The author is Norwegian. This was the first novel he got published, and he was 31 at the time (1890). He had had an earlier novella rejected by a publishing house at the age of 20. After the rejection, he then went to a famous Norwegian author for perhaps support/encouragement, Bjornstjerne Bjornson, who after reading the novella advised him to become an actor. During the 11-year interval between his first rejection as a writer and publication of his first novel he worked as a physical laborer in both his home country Norway, and in the United States (two separate trips). During this period he experienced real raw hunger.
When I was reading this novel, I was literally seeing the young man (as far as I can tell his name was not stated once in the novel) slowly dying of starvation (his hair falling out, hollow cheeks, feeling dizzy when looking down onto the street) and for a good part of the time sleeping in cheap boarding houses or out in the elements. He would occasionally meet people, and sometimes they would give him a little money, and it helped stave off his hunger at times…but one time he threw the food right up — his body was so spent he could not keep food down. And all this time he was writing, and occasionally, just occasionally, getting small pieces of work accepted by the local newspaper editor. But not enough to get out of his state of chronic hunger. I should also say that a surprise to me was the unexpected ending, told on the last page of the book. I didn’t see it coming.
In the inside cover of the book jacket is this description of the protagonist and I can’t describe it better than whoever wrote this: “The physical privations he undergoes are always secondary to the internal psychology of a man whose faculties are slipping beyond control. Black depression alternates with fantastic mirth, clear reasonableness is suddenly replaced by hallucinations, lassitude by spurts of energy, morbid sensitivity by arrogance and pride.”
At times I was not sure what the protagonist was saying regarding an event or a character was real or whether they were hallucinations, because to me he was losing it (i.e., his sanity) as the novel progressed.
Notes:
• It was first published in the UK in 1899 (Leonard Smithers and Co) and in the US a full 21 years later (Knopf)
• https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-en...
• Admirers of his craft were many including Thomas Mann, H.G. Wells, Ernest Hemingway, and Isaac Bashevis Singer (who write the Introduction to the edition I read [Farrar. Straus, & Giroux])
• This is a multi-page “summary” of Hamsun’s life…the good, the bad, and the ugly…(i.e., the bad & ugly: Hamsun and his relationship with the Nazis during WWII…he actually had a face-to-face meeting with Hitler in 1943, and his wife was imprisoned for her support of the Nazi occupation of Norway during WWII…Hamsun was charged with treason [although there is no evidence he was an anti-Semite]): https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/20...
• From a blog site: https://www.oxonianreview.org/wp/the-...
The author is Norwegian. This was the first novel he got published, and he was 31 at the time (1890). He had had an earlier novella rejected by a publishing house at the age of 20. After the rejection, he then went to a famous Norwegian author for perhaps support/encouragement, Bjornstjerne Bjornson, who after reading the novella advised him to become an actor. During the 11-year interval between his first rejection as a writer and publication of his first novel he worked as a physical laborer in both his home country Norway, and in the United States (two separate trips). During this period he experienced real raw hunger.
When I was reading this novel, I was literally seeing the young man (as far as I can tell his name was not stated once in the novel) slowly dying of starvation (his hair falling out, hollow cheeks, feeling dizzy when looking down onto the street) and for a good part of the time sleeping in cheap boarding houses or out in the elements. He would occasionally meet people, and sometimes they would give him a little money, and it helped stave off his hunger at times…but one time he threw the food right up — his body was so spent he could not keep food down. And all this time he was writing, and occasionally, just occasionally, getting small pieces of work accepted by the local newspaper editor. But not enough to get out of his state of chronic hunger. I should also say that a surprise to me was the unexpected ending, told on the last page of the book. I didn’t see it coming.
In the inside cover of the book jacket is this description of the protagonist and I can’t describe it better than whoever wrote this: “The physical privations he undergoes are always secondary to the internal psychology of a man whose faculties are slipping beyond control. Black depression alternates with fantastic mirth, clear reasonableness is suddenly replaced by hallucinations, lassitude by spurts of energy, morbid sensitivity by arrogance and pride.”
At times I was not sure what the protagonist was saying regarding an event or a character was real or whether they were hallucinations, because to me he was losing it (i.e., his sanity) as the novel progressed.
Notes:
• It was first published in the UK in 1899 (Leonard Smithers and Co) and in the US a full 21 years later (Knopf)
• https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-en...
• Admirers of his craft were many including Thomas Mann, H.G. Wells, Ernest Hemingway, and Isaac Bashevis Singer (who write the Introduction to the edition I read [Farrar. Straus, & Giroux])
• This is a multi-page “summary” of Hamsun’s life…the good, the bad, and the ugly…(i.e., the bad & ugly: Hamsun and his relationship with the Nazis during WWII…he actually had a face-to-face meeting with Hitler in 1943, and his wife was imprisoned for her support of the Nazi occupation of Norway during WWII…Hamsun was charged with treason [although there is no evidence he was an anti-Semite]): https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/20...
• From a blog site: https://www.oxonianreview.org/wp/the-...
November 4, 2017
" أنت أفقر من أن يكون لك ضمير، أنت جائع "
آهٍ من هذه الرواية!
بؤس، فقر، جوع، اضطراب، هذيان، تمرد، عِند، كبرياء، حب، كره، أمل، جنون... حينما تجتمع كل هذه المشاعر وأكثر في شخصية روائية واحدة فمن المستحيل أن تجد ما تتحدث عنه بصدد هذه الشخصية. عند هذا الحد تتجاوز كونها شخصية روائية وتتحول إلى شخصية واقعية تدب الحياة فيها.
أراد الكاتب أن يكشف كيف أصبح العالم منغمس في الماديات، وكيف لكاتب أن ينال كل هذا الشقاء والبؤس في هذا العالم، حيث لم يكن التقدير إلا للمال.. يظل البطل مع الجوع والفقر المدقع متمسك بكبريائه، لكنه سينهار في النهاية.
مثل هذا النوع من الروايات يصعب تحليله أو حصره في كلمات، هذا النوع يقرأ فقط، لن تتفهم عظمته إلا عندما تشعر ببؤس وشقاء وآلام البطل، لا بد أن يمس الوجع قلبك، فمهما قرأت عن هذه الرواية وفكرتها لن تشعر بهذا الإحساس المصاحب لها. هناك الكثيرين لا يحبون مثل هذا النوع عديم الحبكة، ويرونه مملًا، وإن كنت من هذه النوعية بالتأكيد لن تحب هذه الرواية.
"وكنت في شدة الجوع الهائلة، فتناولت قطعة خشب من الطريق ألوكها في فمي، وقد أفادتني بالفعل، فكيف أني لم أفكر فيها من قبل!"
الكاتب متأثر بشكل كبير جدًا بالأدب الروسي وخاصةً دوستويفكسي، من حيث التحليل النفسي للشخصية، وتصوير المشاعر بهذه الدقة على الورق، بحيث تقتنع بأن الكاتب شخص بائس، جائع، يتحدث عن نفسه، ويصف اضطراباته.. ومما ساعد على خلق هذا الإحساس أن السرد داخلي على لسان البطل، وهذا الموقف من إحدى نوباته الجنونية:
" ومرت بي عربة تسير ببطء، فإذا هي محملة بالبطاطا، فخطر لي من شدة الحنق ولمجرد المشاكسة والعناد وأقول أن ما عليها ليس بطاطا، بل هو ملفوف. وأقسمت وأغلظت القسم أنه ملفوف، وسمعت مقالي كلمة كلمة، وظللت أؤكد هذا الكذب بالقسم، وأنا واعٍ أنني أكذب وأقسم، لا شيء إلا لأشفي غليلًا في نفسي بارتكاب إثم اليمين الكاذبة. وأحسست بنشوية لإتياني هذا الذنب الذي لا مثيل له، فرفعت ثلاث أصابع وأقسمت بشفتين مضطربتين، باسم الأب والابن والروح القدس، أن ما أراه هو ملفوف لا بطاطا "
الترجمة لا بأس بها، لكن بها بعض الأخطاء اللغوية.. ووقع المترجم فيما يقع فيه أكثر المترجمين الآخرين حينما يحولون الكلمة عن أصلها بغرض التخفيف، كما فعل سامي الدروبي مثلاً وغيره، حيث أصبح الكرون بقدرة قادر ريال! لم أفهم لمَ لمْ يكتبها كرون كما هي العملة الأصلية للنرويج؟ ألأن الريال أقرب للفهم العربي؟! خطأ ساذج من المترجم.
رواية عظيمة المعنى والأثر، ما فعله الكاتب في هذه الرواية هو هلوسة وهذيان وجنون لا يحتمله أحد!
September 19, 2020
الف. خیلی عالی بود. قبلا فیلم اقتباسی آن را دیده بودم و فوق العاده این فیلم را دوست داشتم و همیشه میخواستم رمان آن را هم بخوانم. هنینگ کارلسن کاگردان فیلم نامزد نخل طلای کن و پر آسکارسن بازیگر آن هم برنده بهترین بازیگر کن 1966 میشوند. کتاب و فیلم، هر دو را توصیه می کنم.
ب. از این کتاب چندین ترجمه وجود دارد. من ترجمهی احمد گلشیری (نسخهی چاپی) و ترجمهی دکتر غلامعلی سیار (نسخه پی دی اف) را در اختیار داشتم و نسخهی گلشیری را خواندم. با یک مقایسهی کوچک به این نتایج رسیدم: ترجمهی سیار اولین ترجمه و از فرانسه و ترجمهی گلشیری از انگلیسی هست. هر دو نفر هم نام کتاب را از «گرسنگی» به «گرسنه» تغییر دادهاند و به این مورد در ابتدای کتاب اشاره کردهاند. گلشیری کتاب را شکسته ترجمه کرده است و این برای من بسیار جای سوال دارد که چرا این طور ترجمه کرده است؟ (به خاطر وفاداری به متن؟ یا...؟) ولی سیار به روال معیار ترجمه کرده است. از طرفی ترجمه گلشیری سانسور شده است ولی ترجمهی سیار این طور نیست. در بخش بعد چند تکه کوچک از دو ترجمه همراه با ترجمه انگلیسی را برایتان میگذارم.
Hunger (1966)=Sult (1966) 7.8
image:
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تموم اتفاقهایی که اینجا برای من پیش اومده وقتی بوده که با شکم گرسنه تو کوچهها و خیابونهای شهر اسلو سرگردون بودهم. کسی تا توی این شهر عجیب و غریب زندگی نکرده باشه نمیدونه چه جهنم درهای یه. ص 9 ترجمه گلشیری
این سرگذشت یادگار دورانی است که من با شکم به پشت چسبیده در شهر «کریستیانا» در به در و آواره بودم. هیچکس نیست که از این شهر عجیب برود و اثری بر لوح ضمیرش نماند. ص 25 ترجمه سیار
It was during the time I wandered about and starved in Christiania:
Christiania, this singular city, from which no man departs without carrying
away the traces of his sojourn there. (Translated by George Egerton)
بیرون ساختمون که رسیدم، وسط خیابون ایستادم، مشتهامو گره کردم و، خطاب به کائنات، به صدای بلند گفتم: « یه چیزی بهتون بگم، این دیگه رو نیست که شما دارین!» بعد با عصبانیت سر تکون دادم و از لا به لای دندونهای به هم فشردهم، رو به ابرها، گفتم: «به هر چی بخواین سوگند میخورم ��ه این دیگه رو نیست که شما دارین!» صفحات 105 و 106 ترجمه گلشیری
به محض بیرون آمدن میان کوچه ایستاده مشتها را گره میکنم و به صدای رسا میگویم «ای خداوند بخشندهی مهربان! میروم همه جا جار میکشم که تو دلقکی بیش نیستی!» آنگاه سرم را رو به ابرها کرده تکان میدهم و با دندانهای فشرده و خشمگین فریاد میزنم، زبانم لال تو دلقکی بیش نیستی! ص 146 ترجمه سیار
When I got outside, I came to a standstill and said loudly in the open street,
as I clenched my hands: "I will tell you one thing, my good Lord God, you
are a bungler!" and I nod furiously, with set teeth, up to the clouds; "I will
be hanged if you are not a bungler." (Translated by George Egerton)
دیگه به اون شوری شور هم که دیگرون خیال میکنن نیست. همون طور اونجا گرفته بود نشسته بود. هیچ کدام از ما حرفی نمیزدیم. صدای ضربان قلبشو میشنیدم، صدای ضربان قلب اونو و خودمو که حکم صدای پای اسبو داشت... دیگه نمیدونستم چه کار کنم، حرفهای پرت و پلایی زدم که اون خندهش گرفت... صفحات 198 و 199 ترجمه گلشیری
او آرام و معصوم چشمها را فرو بسته و در جای خود نشسته بود. هیچ یک سخنی نمیگفتیم. آنگاه با خشونت در آغوشش گرفتم و فشردم و بدنم را روی سینهاش چسباندم، ولی کوچکترین اعتراضی نکرد. صدای ضربان قلب خودم و او، هر دو را، میشنیدم. مانند اسبی که چهار نعل بتازد قلبمان میزد. در آغوش کشیدم و بوسیدمش. ابدا باور نمیکردم که این منم که چنین کاری میکنم. چند کلمهی نامربوط از دهانم بیرون آمد و او به خنده افتاد. مکرر در مکرر بوسیدمش. گونهاش را نوازش کردم و در گوشش سخنان عاشقانه خواندم. دو دکمهی بالای نیمتنهاش را باز کردم پستانهایش از زیر پیراهن همچون دو شاهوار نمایان شدند. پرسیدم اجازه هست نگاه کنم؟ ص 258 ترجمه سیار
She sat quite quietly, and still kept her eyes closed; neither of us spoke. I
crushed her fiercely to me, pressed her body greedily against my breast, and
she spoke never a word. I heard her heart's beat, both hers and mine; they sounded like hurrying hoof beats. I kissed her. I no longer knew myself. I uttered some nonsense, that she laughed at, whispered pet names into her mouth, caressed her cheek, kissed her many times.... (Translated by George Egerton).
ب. از این کتاب چندین ترجمه وجود دارد. من ترجمهی احمد گلشیری (نسخهی چاپی) و ترجمهی دکتر غلامعلی سیار (نسخه پی دی اف) را در اختیار داشتم و نسخهی گلشیری را خواندم. با یک مقایسهی کوچک به این نتایج رسیدم: ترجمهی سیار اولین ترجمه و از فرانسه و ترجمهی گلشیری از انگلیسی هست. هر دو نفر هم نام کتاب را از «گرسنگی» به «گرسنه» تغییر دادهاند و به این مورد در ابتدای کتاب اشاره کردهاند. گلشیری کتاب را شکسته ترجمه کرده است و این برای من بسیار جای سوال دارد که چرا این طور ترجمه کرده است؟ (به خاطر وفاداری به متن؟ یا...؟) ولی سیار به روال معیار ترجمه کرده است. از طرفی ترجمه گلشیری سانسور شده است ولی ترجمهی سیار این طور نیست. در بخش بعد چند تکه کوچک از دو ترجمه همراه با ترجمه انگلیسی را برایتان میگذارم.
Hunger (1966)=Sult (1966) 7.8
image:
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تموم اتفاقهایی که اینجا برای من پیش اومده وقتی بوده که با شکم گرسنه تو کوچهها و خیابونهای شهر اسلو سرگردون بودهم. کسی تا توی این شهر عجیب و غریب زندگی نکرده باشه نمیدونه چه جهنم درهای یه. ص 9 ترجمه گلشیری
این سرگذشت یادگار دورانی است که من با شکم به پشت چسبیده در شهر «کریستیانا» در به در و آواره بودم. هیچکس نیست که از این شهر عجیب برود و اثری بر لوح ضمیرش نماند. ص 25 ترجمه سیار
It was during the time I wandered about and starved in Christiania:
Christiania, this singular city, from which no man departs without carrying
away the traces of his sojourn there. (Translated by George Egerton)
بیرون ساختمون که رسیدم، وسط خیابون ایستادم، مشتهامو گره کردم و، خطاب به کائنات، به صدای بلند گفتم: « یه چیزی بهتون بگم، این دیگه رو نیست که شما دارین!» بعد با عصبانیت سر تکون دادم و از لا به لای دندونهای به هم فشردهم، رو به ابرها، گفتم: «به هر چی بخواین سوگند میخورم ��ه این دیگه رو نیست که شما دارین!» صفحات 105 و 106 ترجمه گلشیری
به محض بیرون آمدن میان کوچه ایستاده مشتها را گره میکنم و به صدای رسا میگویم «ای خداوند بخشندهی مهربان! میروم همه جا جار میکشم که تو دلقکی بیش نیستی!» آنگاه سرم را رو به ابرها کرده تکان میدهم و با دندانهای فشرده و خشمگین فریاد میزنم، زبانم لال تو دلقکی بیش نیستی! ص 146 ترجمه سیار
When I got outside, I came to a standstill and said loudly in the open street,
as I clenched my hands: "I will tell you one thing, my good Lord God, you
are a bungler!" and I nod furiously, with set teeth, up to the clouds; "I will
be hanged if you are not a bungler." (Translated by George Egerton)
دیگه به اون شوری شور هم که دیگرون خیال میکنن نیست. همون طور اونجا گرفته بود نشسته بود. هیچ کدام از ما حرفی نمیزدیم. صدای ضربان قلبشو میشنیدم، صدای ضربان قلب اونو و خودمو که حکم صدای پای اسبو داشت... دیگه نمیدونستم چه کار کنم، حرفهای پرت و پلایی زدم که اون خندهش گرفت... صفحات 198 و 199 ترجمه گلشیری
او آرام و معصوم چشمها را فرو بسته و در جای خود نشسته بود. هیچ یک سخنی نمیگفتیم. آنگاه با خشونت در آغوشش گرفتم و فشردم و بدنم را روی سینهاش چسباندم، ولی کوچکترین اعتراضی نکرد. صدای ضربان قلب خودم و او، هر دو را، میشنیدم. مانند اسبی که چهار نعل بتازد قلبمان میزد. در آغوش کشیدم و بوسیدمش. ابدا باور نمیکردم که این منم که چنین کاری میکنم. چند کلمهی نامربوط از دهانم بیرون آمد و او به خنده افتاد. مکرر در مکرر بوسیدمش. گونهاش را نوازش کردم و در گوشش سخنان عاشقانه خواندم. دو دکمهی بالای نیمتنهاش را باز کردم پستانهایش از زیر پیراهن همچون دو شاهوار نمایان شدند. پرسیدم اجازه هست نگاه کنم؟ ص 258 ترجمه سیار
She sat quite quietly, and still kept her eyes closed; neither of us spoke. I
crushed her fiercely to me, pressed her body greedily against my breast, and
she spoke never a word. I heard her heart's beat, both hers and mine; they sounded like hurrying hoof beats. I kissed her. I no longer knew myself. I uttered some nonsense, that she laughed at, whispered pet names into her mouth, caressed her cheek, kissed her many times.... (Translated by George Egerton).
March 3, 2024
في بدايات قرائتى ذهب فكرى إلى رواية الفقراء لدوستويفسكى إلى البطل الذى لم يكن يمتلك سوى القليل لكنه يعطي من يجده محتاجا حتى لو اضطر ان يتداين او يرهن أشياءه ويشعر بالحزن والعجز حين لا يستطيع ان يعطى المحتاج شيئا فبطل رواية الجوع يشبهه فى هذه النقطة فها هو يذهب ليرهن صدريته ليساعد رجلا محتاجا رغم انه لا يملك اى شئ . كما انى شعرت احيانا كما لو ان البطل فى هذيانه ومعاناته وافكاره يشبه شخصيات دوستويفسكى مثل فى احد المواقف ذكرني بتخبط بطل الجريمة والعقاب .
ثم ذكرني في معاناته مع الجوع وبحثه عن مكان يؤويه برواية متشردا بين باريس ولندن لجورج اوريل التى لا اذكر تفاصيلها لكن أذكر انها من الروايات المرهقة فى قرائتها . وهنا كان وصفه لحالته ربما يكون اسوأ
الرواية في غالبها ماعدا بعض الحوارات الجانبية مع بعض الأشخاص الذين يلتقيهم سردية وحوار داخلي بين بطل الرواية ونفسه يحكى بها عن معاناته النفسية والجسدية ومحاولاته البائسة فى التغلب على الجوع والحصول على مايسد رمقه وعلى مكان ينام به . فبطل الرواية هو شاب يعتمد على كتابة المقالات لكسب قوت يومه ، احيانا ينجح فى ذاك ليحصل على قليل من المال يتقوت به قليلا قبل ان يعود لحالة الفقر المدقع والجوع فالنقود تتلاشى سريعا ليعود ويحاول ان يكتب شيئا ربما يوافق أحد على نشره . لكن فى الغالب كانت مقالاته يتم رفضها فكما قيل له ذات مرة " لاشك ان كل ماتكتبه يكلفك كثيرا من الجهود ، غير انك عنيف جدا تلتهب حماسة في كتاباتك ، وليتك تعدل قليلا .فى كتاباتك حماسة أشبه بالحمي "
واحيانا يجد مكان ينام به او يظل يدور فى الشوارع ويلتحف الرصيف .
" كنت في شدة الجوع الهائلة فتناولت قطعة خشب من الطريق ألوكها في فمي .وقد افادتني بالفعل ، فكيف أني لم أفكر فيها من قبل !"
كان الجوع لايؤثر به جسديا فقط لكن عقليا ايضا كان يدفعه احيانا الى الهذيان وأحيانا إلى الخيال وأوقات أخرى كان يجعله يرغب في إيذاء الأخرين لكنه كان لايلبث وان يتراجع ويلوم نفسه . جوع يجعله يقنط من رحمه الله ويتفوه بكلمات غاضبة من شدة يأسه وضعفه " إن ماقلته لم يكن إلا كلاما فارغا لا طائل فيه ! لم يكن إلا كلاما فارغا ذاك الذي حاولت به التعبير عن أعماق مأساتي " و كان يمشى كثيرا يحادث نفسه
" قلت مخاطبا نفسي : هلا سرت معي قليلا إلى الميناء ؟ هذا اذا كان لديك وقت ! "
" وادركت انى أسرح في عالم الخيال .. أدركت ذلك حتى قبل أن انتهي من مناجاة نفسي . لقد كان خبلي ناتجا عن هذيان الضعف والهزال ، ومع ذلك لم أفقد رشدي "
كان يتمنى ان يشعر به وبحاجته وفقره وجوعه أحد دون ان يضطر للتذلل والطلب من الآخرين . كان يمتلك كبرياء فى البداية يجعله يتردد كثيرا قبل طلب أى معونة ويشعر بالخجل و الخزى اذا طلب معونة من أحد ورفض طلبه " أفلم أزل بدون كسرة خبز أستطيع دسها في فمي ؟ وكل ما بلغته أني أصبحت أتقزز من نفسي "
وهاهو فى أحد المرات يكاد يطلب مالا من رئيس التحرير مقدما لمقالة كتبها لكنه تراجع عن الطلب ثم أخذ يؤنب نفسه ويعذبها ويهينها
" أن تجري أيها الكلب التعس الى احد الناس ، وتخمشه في عينه او تكاد ، لانك تطمع في ريال ، هذا وحق الله أحط وأسفل ما سمعت به ! هيا امش ! أسرع ! أسرع أينا الوغد فسوف أريك "
ولكن ماذا سيفعل ؟ وكيف سيعيش ؟ هل سيستطيع الاستمرار هكذا ؟ ام ان جوعه سيجعله يرضخ ويذل ويفعل مالم يكن يتوقع ان يفعله ؟ وهل سيلتقي يوما شخصا يشعر به ويحنو عليه ام سيظل يتعذب ؟
رواية صعبة على النفس ، معاناة تجعلك تقف وتفكر كثيرا ، الجوع والألم والتقزز من النفس والإحساس بالذل والضعف وقلة الحيلة .
مع رواية كهذه ارغب فى انهاء الحديث عنها بأن أقول
الحمد لله دائما وابدا . الحمد لله على كل نعمه .
اللهمَّ إني أعوذُ بك من زوالِ نِعمتِك، وتحوُّلِ عافيتِك، وفُجاءَة نِقمتِك، وجميعِ سُخطِك. اللهم إن شكرك نعمة، تستحق ا��شكر، فعلّمني كيف أشكرك ، الحمد لله كما ينبغى لجلال وجهك وعظيم سلطانك
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ثم ذكرني في معاناته مع الجوع وبحثه عن مكان يؤويه برواية متشردا بين باريس ولندن لجورج اوريل التى لا اذكر تفاصيلها لكن أذكر انها من الروايات المرهقة فى قرائتها . وهنا كان وصفه لحالته ربما يكون اسوأ
الرواية في غالبها ماعدا بعض الحوارات الجانبية مع بعض الأشخاص الذين يلتقيهم سردية وحوار داخلي بين بطل الرواية ونفسه يحكى بها عن معاناته النفسية والجسدية ومحاولاته البائسة فى التغلب على الجوع والحصول على مايسد رمقه وعلى مكان ينام به . فبطل الرواية هو شاب يعتمد على كتابة المقالات لكسب قوت يومه ، احيانا ينجح فى ذاك ليحصل على قليل من المال يتقوت به قليلا قبل ان يعود لحالة الفقر المدقع والجوع فالنقود تتلاشى سريعا ليعود ويحاول ان يكتب شيئا ربما يوافق أحد على نشره . لكن فى الغالب كانت مقالاته يتم رفضها فكما قيل له ذات مرة " لاشك ان كل ماتكتبه يكلفك كثيرا من الجهود ، غير انك عنيف جدا تلتهب حماسة في كتاباتك ، وليتك تعدل قليلا .فى كتاباتك حماسة أشبه بالحمي "
واحيانا يجد مكان ينام به او يظل يدور فى الشوارع ويلتحف الرصيف .
" كنت في شدة الجوع الهائلة فتناولت قطعة خشب من الطريق ألوكها في فمي .وقد افادتني بالفعل ، فكيف أني لم أفكر فيها من قبل !"
كان الجوع لايؤثر به جسديا فقط لكن عقليا ايضا كان يدفعه احيانا الى الهذيان وأحيانا إلى الخيال وأوقات أخرى كان يجعله يرغب في إيذاء الأخرين لكنه كان لايلبث وان يتراجع ويلوم نفسه . جوع يجعله يقنط من رحمه الله ويتفوه بكلمات غاضبة من شدة يأسه وضعفه " إن ماقلته لم يكن إلا كلاما فارغا لا طائل فيه ! لم يكن إلا كلاما فارغا ذاك الذي حاولت به التعبير عن أعماق مأساتي " و كان يمشى كثيرا يحادث نفسه
" قلت مخاطبا نفسي : هلا سرت معي قليلا إلى الميناء ؟ هذا اذا كان لديك وقت ! "
" وادركت انى أسرح في عالم الخيال .. أدركت ذلك حتى قبل أن انتهي من مناجاة نفسي . لقد كان خبلي ناتجا عن هذيان الضعف والهزال ، ومع ذلك لم أفقد رشدي "
كان يتمنى ان يشعر به وبحاجته وفقره وجوعه أحد دون ان يضطر للتذلل والطلب من الآخرين . كان يمتلك كبرياء فى البداية يجعله يتردد كثيرا قبل طلب أى معونة ويشعر بالخجل و الخزى اذا طلب معونة من أحد ورفض طلبه " أفلم أزل بدون كسرة خبز أستطيع دسها في فمي ؟ وكل ما بلغته أني أصبحت أتقزز من نفسي "
وهاهو فى أحد المرات يكاد يطلب مالا من رئيس التحرير مقدما لمقالة كتبها لكنه تراجع عن الطلب ثم أخذ يؤنب نفسه ويعذبها ويهينها
" أن تجري أيها الكلب التعس الى احد الناس ، وتخمشه في عينه او تكاد ، لانك تطمع في ريال ، هذا وحق الله أحط وأسفل ما سمعت به ! هيا امش ! أسرع ! أسرع أينا الوغد فسوف أريك "
ولكن ماذا سيفعل ؟ وكيف سيعيش ؟ هل سيستطيع الاستمرار هكذا ؟ ام ان جوعه سيجعله يرضخ ويذل ويفعل مالم يكن يتوقع ان يفعله ؟ وهل سيلتقي يوما شخصا يشعر به ويحنو عليه ام سيظل يتعذب ؟
رواية صعبة على النفس ، معاناة تجعلك تقف وتفكر كثيرا ، الجوع والألم والتقزز من النفس والإحساس بالذل والضعف وقلة الحيلة .
مع رواية كهذه ارغب فى انهاء الحديث عنها بأن أقول
الحمد لله دائما وابدا . الحمد لله على كل نعمه .
اللهمَّ إني أعوذُ بك من زوالِ نِعمتِك، وتحوُّلِ عافيتِك، وفُجاءَة نِقمتِك، وجميعِ سُخطِك. اللهم إن شكرك نعمة، تستحق ا��شكر، فعلّمني كيف أشكرك ، الحمد لله كما ينبغى لجلال وجهك وعظيم سلطانك
٧ / ٢ / ٢٠٢١
Read
February 2, 2022
"Açlık iflahımı kesiyordu; ölmeyi, yok olmayı özledim, duygulandım, ağladım."
(s.52)
Açlığı derinden hissettiren, açken okunmamasını tavsiye ettiğim gerçekten etkileyici bir kitap. Karakterimizin yalnızca fizyolojik olarak açlık hissini değil, aynı zamanda yaşadığı ruhsal gelgitleri de son derece başarılı tasvir etmiş Hamsun. Zaten Hamsun'un en etkileyici ve başarılı eseri olarak kabul edilen kitabın karanlıkla boğuşma sahnesi kesinlikle efsane nitelikte:
"Fakat uyuyamadım. Bir zaman yattığım yerden karanlığı; kavrayamadığım, uçsuz bucaksız ve kalın karanlık kitlesini seyrettim. Aklıma sığdıramıyordum karanlığı. Bütün ölçülerin üstünde bir karanlıktı bu; yakınlığı altında eziliyordum. Gözlerimi kapadım, yarı sesli bir şarkı tutturdum, oyalanmak için yatağa uzandım, fakat boşuna! Karanlık, zihnimi kavramış, beni bir an olsun kendi halime bırakmıyordu. Ya içinde erir, karanlığa karışır, gidersem? Yatakta doğruldum, kollarımı sağa sola savurdum." (s.57)
Karanlığın içinde yitip gitmiş Hamsun'a selamlar olsun.
M.B.
Açlığı derinden hissettiren, açken okunmamasını tavsiye ettiğim gerçekten etkileyici bir kitap. Karakterimizin yalnızca fizyolojik olarak açlık hissini değil, aynı zamanda yaşadığı ruhsal gelgitleri de son derece başarılı tasvir etmiş Hamsun. Zaten Hamsun'un en etkileyici ve başarılı eseri olarak kabul edilen kitabın karanlıkla boğuşma sahnesi kesinlikle efsane nitelikte:
"Fakat uyuyamadım. Bir zaman yattığım yerden karanlığı; kavrayamadığım, uçsuz bucaksız ve kalın karanlık kitlesini seyrettim. Aklıma sığdıramıyordum karanlığı. Bütün ölçülerin üstünde bir karanlıktı bu; yakınlığı altında eziliyordum. Gözlerimi kapadım, yarı sesli bir şarkı tutturdum, oyalanmak için yatağa uzandım, fakat boşuna! Karanlık, zihnimi kavramış, beni bir an olsun kendi halime bırakmıyordu. Ya içinde erir, karanlığa karışır, gidersem? Yatakta doğruldum, kollarımı sağa sola savurdum." (s.57)
Karanlığın içinde yitip gitmiş Hamsun'a selamlar olsun.
M.B.
February 15, 2020
Τώρα κατάλαβα από που ξεκίνησαν όλα.
Όλοι οι Κάφκα και οι Στάινμπεκ και οι Χέμινγουει, αλλά και οι Μπάσεβιτς - Σίνγκερ και οι Παμούκ, όλοι χρωστάνε κάτι σε αυτό το μικρό βιβλιαράκι.
Δεν θα γράψω "συγκλονιστικό", "αριστουργηματικό", "πρωτοποριακό" και άλλα τέτοια, δε νομίζω ότι χρειάζεται.
Να πω μόνο ότι σαν βιβλιόφιλος, ρίχνω μομφή στον εαυτό μου που δεν το είχα διαβάσει πολύ νωρίτερα.
Και φυσικά προτείνω σε όλους να το δουν άμεσα.
Όλοι οι Κάφκα και οι Στάινμπεκ και οι Χέμινγουει, αλλά και οι Μπάσεβιτς - Σίνγκερ και οι Παμούκ, όλοι χρωστάνε κάτι σε αυτό το μικρό βιβλιαράκι.
Δεν θα γράψω "συγκλονιστικό", "αριστουργηματικό", "πρωτοποριακό" και άλλα τέτοια, δε νομίζω ότι χρειάζεται.
Να πω μόνο ότι σαν βιβλιόφιλος, ρίχνω μομφή στον εαυτό μου που δεν το είχα διαβάσει πολύ νωρίτερα.
Και φυσικά προτείνω σε όλους να το δουν άμεσα.
June 4, 2024
In a series of very fortunate events, I’ve secured a short-term sublet from an associate professor in the Romance Studies Department of a North Carolina university.
It’s a small apartment in an older building, but it’s bursting with love and intention. The full height and breadth of one living room wall is lined with bookshelves, abounding in novels and works on theory I wouldn’t have discovered on my own. There are raw bamboo tables and smart lightbulbs that adjust to my mood, a stack of Portuguese CDs and another of very good vinyl. There’s a royal blue couch that feels like butter and an abundance of flowers and plants, some living, others dried and hung. There are TWO coffee makers: one for espresso, one for regular brew, and a powerful frothing tool for my milk. *dirty!* Last but not least, there’s a chalk board in the kitchen, upon which Profé artfully inscribed, “Welcome home, Sarah.”
Every inch of my temporary abode is designed for comfort and nurture, with the exception of a few selfish neighbors who are undoubtedly chain smoking in this non-smoking building: I smell every exhale. Stinkers aside, with an apartment full of new-to-me books and music, I’m a kid in a candy store. I’d listen and read all day long if life would let me.
The first novel I pulled from the shelves do professor romântico is one you’ve probably read. Hunger features heavily on college reading lists, but it was never on mine, so this is my first encounter. And dear God, what an encounter it’s been.
The protagonist – an unnamed, starving artist - is a walking contradiction, as are we all. One moment, he sells the clothes off his back to feed a bum who’s hardly worse off than himself, the next he passes a woman on the street and feels compelled “…to follow her and hurt her in some way” (p. 11).
As food deprivation escalates, so do the wild mood swings:
“I was drunk with starvation, my hunger had made me intoxicated” (p.56).
“My mind was suffering a complete transformation, a tissue in my brain had snapped” (p.42).
"I break my pencil between my teeth, jump up, tear my manuscript to bits, every single sheet, toss my hat in the gutter and trample it" (p.190).
These manic displays sparked a “chicken or egg” debate in me: is our leading man starving because he has unaddressed mental health issues, or does he have mental health issues because he’s starving? There’s evidence for the former, including his inexplicable practice of giving money away the second he gets it, rather than budgeting toward his own survival. Self-sabotage much?
I was surprised to learn – halfway through the book – it’s semi-autobiographical. Knut Hamsun was indeed a starving artist, and he loosely based this book on his own experience of going hungry while gaining a foothold in the world of publishing. This knowledge didn’t alter my reading experience, but it did add a fun narrative meta-layer.
Note: At the end of this season, I’ll compile a gift for the good professor: a hand-bound book of reviews sprung from his beautiful shelves. Thank you, kind sir, for trusting me with your home, your town, your art.
Book/Song Pairing (plucked from profé’s collection): Sonata in D minor L.108 (Scarlatti, Daniil Trifonov)
It’s a small apartment in an older building, but it’s bursting with love and intention. The full height and breadth of one living room wall is lined with bookshelves, abounding in novels and works on theory I wouldn’t have discovered on my own. There are raw bamboo tables and smart lightbulbs that adjust to my mood, a stack of Portuguese CDs and another of very good vinyl. There’s a royal blue couch that feels like butter and an abundance of flowers and plants, some living, others dried and hung. There are TWO coffee makers: one for espresso, one for regular brew, and a powerful frothing tool for my milk. *dirty!* Last but not least, there’s a chalk board in the kitchen, upon which Profé artfully inscribed, “Welcome home, Sarah.”
Every inch of my temporary abode is designed for comfort and nurture, with the exception of a few selfish neighbors who are undoubtedly chain smoking in this non-smoking building: I smell every exhale. Stinkers aside, with an apartment full of new-to-me books and music, I’m a kid in a candy store. I’d listen and read all day long if life would let me.
The first novel I pulled from the shelves do professor romântico is one you’ve probably read. Hunger features heavily on college reading lists, but it was never on mine, so this is my first encounter. And dear God, what an encounter it’s been.
The protagonist – an unnamed, starving artist - is a walking contradiction, as are we all. One moment, he sells the clothes off his back to feed a bum who’s hardly worse off than himself, the next he passes a woman on the street and feels compelled “…to follow her and hurt her in some way” (p. 11).
As food deprivation escalates, so do the wild mood swings:
“I was drunk with starvation, my hunger had made me intoxicated” (p.56).
“My mind was suffering a complete transformation, a tissue in my brain had snapped” (p.42).
"I break my pencil between my teeth, jump up, tear my manuscript to bits, every single sheet, toss my hat in the gutter and trample it" (p.190).
These manic displays sparked a “chicken or egg” debate in me: is our leading man starving because he has unaddressed mental health issues, or does he have mental health issues because he’s starving? There’s evidence for the former, including his inexplicable practice of giving money away the second he gets it, rather than budgeting toward his own survival. Self-sabotage much?
I was surprised to learn – halfway through the book – it’s semi-autobiographical. Knut Hamsun was indeed a starving artist, and he loosely based this book on his own experience of going hungry while gaining a foothold in the world of publishing. This knowledge didn’t alter my reading experience, but it did add a fun narrative meta-layer.
Note: At the end of this season, I’ll compile a gift for the good professor: a hand-bound book of reviews sprung from his beautiful shelves. Thank you, kind sir, for trusting me with your home, your town, your art.
Book/Song Pairing (plucked from profé’s collection): Sonata in D minor L.108 (Scarlatti, Daniil Trifonov)
October 28, 2023
من قال أن الجوع ممض للجسد فقط؟ ألا ترون أنه ملهب للذهن، مؤلم للكبرياء، منهك للعزيمة؟
جعلتني هذه الرواية استحضر صوراً من الماضي، أيام الدراسة الجامعية:
الصورة الأولى
بداية الشهر، أنا وابن عمي نستلم مصروفاتنا الشهرية التي أرسلها أبوينا من المهجر. نمشي الهوينى ونشعر بالنسيم يدغدع حواسنا. ننادي بعضنا بأشد الألقاب حميمية. أعزمه على الغداء ويعزمني، أصر أنا ويصر هو. نذهب سويا للغداء على طاولة متقابلين. نتناول الطعام بعذوبة ونتبادل نظرات احترام شبيه بالهيام، ونغوص في لجة من المجاملات: "تفضل يارفيق الدرب"، و "بالعافية يابن العم"...الخ
الصورة الثانية
شارف الشهر على نهايته، أسير أنا وابن عمي بيننا مابين المشرق والمغرب، وكأننا ذاهبان لمبارزة على طريقة الكاوبوي. الأذقان مشعثة والنظرات ذئبية. يناديني بلفظ غير محترم فأرد له الصاع صاعيّن. نقتعد الرصيف، وصوت الريح يصفر في أذنينا. نبدأ الحساب العسير، متى دفع عني ومتى حاسبت عنه، ولا ننسى شاردة ولا واردة. ينتهي النقاش بجدال يسمعه كل من في الشارع. في مرة من المرات تخاصمنا على القروش (العملة المعدنية)، وتجاذبناها حتى تناثرت على قارعة الطريق. لا يمكن الاستهانة بالعملة المعدنية عندما تمثل لك مشواراً بالنقل العام عوضاً عن قطع المشي حتى تفطر القدمين، أو تمثل شطيرة للإفطار، أو موساً للحلاقة.
هذا مايفعله السغب وأكثر. يحول الثقة إلى
اهتزاز، الكرامة إلى تذلل، الأريحية إلى تشدد، وتجعل من أغلب شؤون الحياة ترفاً لا معنى له. ويكون الجوع في أشد حالاته إيلاماً إذا ماخالطته كرامة مزمنة، عندها يتحول إلى سكين تجرح في الغدو والرواح. كيف لنا إذن أن نلوم بطل الرواية إذا فقد الجزء الأعظم من اتزانه، كيف نلومه إذا تصرف بسخف، إذا سرق ثم تبرع بما سرقه، إذا أحب فتاة ونفرها من نفسه، إذا فكر بقضاء ليلته في السجن كي لا ينام في العراء؟ كيف لنا أن نحكم على من يمضع قصاصات الخشب ليلهى معدة أضناها الجوع؟ هذه الرواية تزيل القشرة التي يتحلى بها الإنسان عند اكتفاءه من الجوع ليرينا كيف يمكن أن نكون إذا وقعنا في فخ الفاقة. لا تظن أنك ستتمسك بنفس المبادئ وتفكر بنفس الطريقة، فأنت شخص مختلف تماماً، شخص بلا معدة مكتفية، بلا بشرة ناعمة، بل آخر يغطيه وبر أشعث وله أنياب ومخالب. ماكذب من قال: أنت مو أنت وأنت جيعان.
جعلتني هذه الرواية استحضر صوراً من الماضي، أيام الدراسة الجامعية:
الصورة الأولى
بداية الشهر، أنا وابن عمي نستلم مصروفاتنا الشهرية التي أرسلها أبوينا من المهجر. نمشي الهوينى ونشعر بالنسيم يدغدع حواسنا. ننادي بعضنا بأشد الألقاب حميمية. أعزمه على الغداء ويعزمني، أصر أنا ويصر هو. نذهب سويا للغداء على طاولة متقابلين. نتناول الطعام بعذوبة ونتبادل نظرات احترام شبيه بالهيام، ونغوص في لجة من المجاملات: "تفضل يارفيق الدرب"، و "بالعافية يابن العم"...الخ
الصورة الثانية
شارف الشهر على نهايته، أسير أنا وابن عمي بيننا مابين المشرق والمغرب، وكأننا ذاهبان لمبارزة على طريقة الكاوبوي. الأذقان مشعثة والنظرات ذئبية. يناديني بلفظ غير محترم فأرد له الصاع صاعيّن. نقتعد الرصيف، وصوت الريح يصفر في أذنينا. نبدأ الحساب العسير، متى دفع عني ومتى حاسبت عنه، ولا ننسى شاردة ولا واردة. ينتهي النقاش بجدال يسمعه كل من في الشارع. في مرة من المرات تخاصمنا على القروش (العملة المعدنية)، وتجاذبناها حتى تناثرت على قارعة الطريق. لا يمكن الاستهانة بالعملة المعدنية عندما تمثل لك مشواراً بالنقل العام عوضاً عن قطع المشي حتى تفطر القدمين، أو تمثل شطيرة للإفطار، أو موساً للحلاقة.
هذا مايفعله السغب وأكثر. يحول الثقة إلى
اهتزاز، الكرامة إلى تذلل، الأريحية إلى تشدد، وتجعل من أغلب شؤون الحياة ترفاً لا معنى له. ويكون الجوع في أشد حالاته إيلاماً إذا ماخالطته كرامة مزمنة، عندها يتحول إلى سكين تجرح في الغدو والرواح. كيف لنا إذن أن نلوم بطل الرواية إذا فقد الجزء الأعظم من اتزانه، كيف نلومه إذا تصرف بسخف، إذا سرق ثم تبرع بما سرقه، إذا أحب فتاة ونفرها من نفسه، إذا فكر بقضاء ليلته في السجن كي لا ينام في العراء؟ كيف لنا أن نحكم على من يمضع قصاصات الخشب ليلهى معدة أضناها الجوع؟ هذه الرواية تزيل القشرة التي يتحلى بها الإنسان عند اكتفاءه من الجوع ليرينا كيف يمكن أن نكون إذا وقعنا في فخ الفاقة. لا تظن أنك ستتمسك بنفس المبادئ وتفكر بنفس الطريقة، فأنت شخص مختلف تماماً، شخص بلا معدة مكتفية، بلا بشرة ناعمة، بل آخر يغطيه وبر أشعث وله أنياب ومخالب. ماكذب من قال: أنت مو أنت وأنت جيعان.
January 2, 2013
This powerful work of writing by Knut Hamsun, clearly lets you think what the state of ‘hunger’ can do to a human being. Yes, by ‘hunger’, the author does really refer to the state of starvation in the absence of food. This idea of ‘hunger’, which looks like just another figure when it makes its appearance in one’s view in the form of some statistics, something which the well-to do people cannot even imagine about, is the essential sketch of this extremely thought provoking work by Hamsun.
Telling us about a young writer, who isn’t making much in terms of money, the author exceptionally explains what ‘hunger’ can do even to the mind of a well educated person. The struggle of the young writer, while going on without bread for days at a stretch, is displayed here in a bone chilling manner. Sometimes, it drives the poor soul into delirium. He plunges into imagining things and events, talking to himself, inventing new words or furiously trying to work over a new idea for a story or a piece of writing so as to be able to sell it to a newspaper to earn some crones. Sometimes, when overpowered by hunger, he also tries to frighten people and to mock them. This gives him an outlet and a momentarily refuge from the agonizing pain inside. Though he soon recovers his senses and reproaches himself for doing such things.
He keeps looking for a job but doesn’t succeed. One by one he pawns every thing that belongs to him to get some crones for food till at last, he is just left with a blanket and the clothes that he wears everyday.
His struggle makes something inside you break. You feel a sense of anger growing inside for not being able to help that feeble, slowly decaying person. More so when he is wet from sleeping on a bench and extremely cold. But what really fills you with anxiety is that the poor man, though almost broke, plunging into the state of hunger every now and then and never once sleeping on a full stomach, still exhibits a strong moral character. He, perhaps because of pride, doesn’t tell anyone about his state of condition. Once, when he is given some exchange money accidentally by a shopkeeper, the weight of those coins in his pocket keep weighing upon his conscience. Till at last, he gives that money to a cake seller voluntarily and goes penniless again. It makes you more anxious. What was he trying to prove? Can anyone imagine parting from the last meagre sum of money when one is already hungry for some 3-4 days and literally dying of starvation? Would I ever do the same if I ever was in same condition? Sitting comfortably in my chair, surrounded by material things which provide a sense of security, I will perhaps answer ‘yes’. But what, if otherwise? It is too dreadful even to imagine that.
Here the author succeeded in shaking me hard and let me to think what this feeling of ‘hunger’ could do to poor, illiterate persons? People who haven’t got the faculty of thinking and whose conscience doesn’t bother them? Wouldn’t it make thieves, murderers and vilest creatures out of them?
Thinking such led me to ponder upon another form of ‘hunger’, a ‘hunger’ of acknowledgement, of empathy, of the feeling of being understood and loved and cared for. What if this necessity to be understood by someone, to be able to talk to someone and to express one’s innermost feelings is suppressed by the pressure of earning a living, by the load of expectations of people around, by the every day’s struggle to assert an existence in the world? What all can happen then? Perhaps, it can lead to a state of insanity or perhaps the person, intoxicated by the fever of these pressures; succumb to one moment’s whim hence by turning into a vile character. Aren’t a large number of crimes that we witness, somehow a result of this ‘hunger’?
Towards the end, even our virtuous hero, succumb to unbearable hunger and harasses the same cake seller for some cakes, which he could eat and thus satisfy his hunger. His salvation comes in the end when he gets a job at a ship which is about to sail soon.
Does the author gives hope toward the end or does he place a big question mark before us? I would let you to ponder upon that. But it is definitely not one easy read. It engrossed me into reading it in single sitting and didn't let me even budge or take my eyes off awhile. Its style reminded me of Dostoevsky’s “Crime and Punishment” and hence made a lasting impression upon me.
Highly recommended!
Telling us about a young writer, who isn’t making much in terms of money, the author exceptionally explains what ‘hunger’ can do even to the mind of a well educated person. The struggle of the young writer, while going on without bread for days at a stretch, is displayed here in a bone chilling manner. Sometimes, it drives the poor soul into delirium. He plunges into imagining things and events, talking to himself, inventing new words or furiously trying to work over a new idea for a story or a piece of writing so as to be able to sell it to a newspaper to earn some crones. Sometimes, when overpowered by hunger, he also tries to frighten people and to mock them. This gives him an outlet and a momentarily refuge from the agonizing pain inside. Though he soon recovers his senses and reproaches himself for doing such things.
He keeps looking for a job but doesn’t succeed. One by one he pawns every thing that belongs to him to get some crones for food till at last, he is just left with a blanket and the clothes that he wears everyday.
His struggle makes something inside you break. You feel a sense of anger growing inside for not being able to help that feeble, slowly decaying person. More so when he is wet from sleeping on a bench and extremely cold. But what really fills you with anxiety is that the poor man, though almost broke, plunging into the state of hunger every now and then and never once sleeping on a full stomach, still exhibits a strong moral character. He, perhaps because of pride, doesn’t tell anyone about his state of condition. Once, when he is given some exchange money accidentally by a shopkeeper, the weight of those coins in his pocket keep weighing upon his conscience. Till at last, he gives that money to a cake seller voluntarily and goes penniless again. It makes you more anxious. What was he trying to prove? Can anyone imagine parting from the last meagre sum of money when one is already hungry for some 3-4 days and literally dying of starvation? Would I ever do the same if I ever was in same condition? Sitting comfortably in my chair, surrounded by material things which provide a sense of security, I will perhaps answer ‘yes’. But what, if otherwise? It is too dreadful even to imagine that.
Here the author succeeded in shaking me hard and let me to think what this feeling of ‘hunger’ could do to poor, illiterate persons? People who haven’t got the faculty of thinking and whose conscience doesn’t bother them? Wouldn’t it make thieves, murderers and vilest creatures out of them?
Thinking such led me to ponder upon another form of ‘hunger’, a ‘hunger’ of acknowledgement, of empathy, of the feeling of being understood and loved and cared for. What if this necessity to be understood by someone, to be able to talk to someone and to express one’s innermost feelings is suppressed by the pressure of earning a living, by the load of expectations of people around, by the every day’s struggle to assert an existence in the world? What all can happen then? Perhaps, it can lead to a state of insanity or perhaps the person, intoxicated by the fever of these pressures; succumb to one moment’s whim hence by turning into a vile character. Aren’t a large number of crimes that we witness, somehow a result of this ‘hunger’?
Towards the end, even our virtuous hero, succumb to unbearable hunger and harasses the same cake seller for some cakes, which he could eat and thus satisfy his hunger. His salvation comes in the end when he gets a job at a ship which is about to sail soon.
Does the author gives hope toward the end or does he place a big question mark before us? I would let you to ponder upon that. But it is definitely not one easy read. It engrossed me into reading it in single sitting and didn't let me even budge or take my eyes off awhile. Its style reminded me of Dostoevsky’s “Crime and Punishment” and hence made a lasting impression upon me.
Highly recommended!
November 3, 2022
نمیدونم تصور شما از گرسنگی چیه؟ ولی حدس میزنم برای اغلب آدما اینجوریه که دلتون ضعف بره و تا وعده بعدی غذا، که مطمئنید توی راهه، مجبور باشید صبر کنید. ولی چیزی که توی این کتاب بهش میگن گرسنگی، واقعا واقعا گرسنه بودنه، واقعا هیچی نخوردنه، مطلقا هیچ چیز قابل بلعیدن نداشتنه. برای ماها که هیچوقت گرسنه نبودیم، این اصلا قابل تصور نیست، و اگر حتی تخیل خیلی قوی ای هم داشته باشیم، هیچوقت نمیتونیم چنین شرایطی رو تصور کنیم، چه برسه به اینکه بتونیم اینجوری ازش بگیم . اما هامسون که خودش زندگی سختی داشته و گرسن��ی واقعی رو چشیده، تونسته کاملاً دقیق و باورپذیر درباره اش برامون بنویسه. دیروز توی بخش آخر ژرمینال که میخوندمش، جایی بود که اتین و کاترین از گرسنگی چوب میجویدن و بعد که چوب تموم شد کمربند اتین رو خوردن و بعد هرچیز جویدنی که به دستشون رسید رو هم خوردن. جای دیگه ای از کتاب، وقتی خانواده ماهو اعتصاب کردن، بچه ۶ ساله شون از شدت گرسنگی متوالی جلوی چشم خانواده مرد؛ در حالیکه توی لحظه احتضار لبخند میزد. شاید خوشحال بود گرسنگیش تموم شده.
اینها و کتاب گرسنگی تصورم از گرسنه بودن رو کاملا به چالش کشید. به خصوص توی گرسنگی، با کلی سوال اخلاقی مواجه شدم. مثلا وقتی از گرسنگی درحال مرگ هستی، دزدی کردن از یه آدم فقیر مثل خودت چقدر بی اخلاقیه؟ یا اینکه چقدر میشه توی این شرایط به وجدان وفادار بود و دروغ نگفت؟ من فکر میکنم توی این شرایط، اخلاقمدار بودن دیوونگیه. همون طور که قهرمان بی نام این داستان هم به نوعی دیوانه بود.
.....
این رمان خیلی بی نام و نشانه، اما اثر مهمی توی ادبیات عه و الهام بخش نویسندگان بزرگه. برای اينکه بتونید مقایسه کنید، این کتاب داستانی شبیه جنایت و مکافات و یا مسخ داره. به طور جدی پیشنهاد میکنم بخونیدش. بی نهایت روانشناسانه و دقیق گرسنگی رو تحلیل کرده. مونولوگ های شاهکار زیادی داره که مطنعنم باعث میشه با آقای گرسنه همذات پنداری کنید. آه روح آقای هامسون باید برای این ریویوو بهم پول بده. :))
اما با این همه چرا بهش ۴ دادم؟ خب صادقانه بگم که با ۲۵ صفحه آخر کتاب اصلا حال نکردم و همونطور که به همخوان گلم گفتم، انگار یک نویسنده دیگه اونو نوشته یا هامسون وسط نوشتن پاشده رفته فوتسال .
با این وجود، بازم دوستش داشتم و افتخار رفتن توی لیست کتاب های محبوبم رو بهش میدم .
...
این ریویوو رو بدون دوباره خوندنش آپدیت میکنم، فارغ از غلط های نگارشی و تایپو ها امیدوارم اونقدر ترغیب کننده باشه که همین الان توی فهرست وانت تو رید تون ادش کنید. و امیدوارم آنقدر خوش بخت باشید که هدیه بگیریدش :)))
اینها و کتاب گرسنگی تصورم از گرسنه بودن رو کاملا به چالش کشید. به خصوص توی گرسنگی، با کلی سوال اخلاقی مواجه شدم. مثلا وقتی از گرسنگی درحال مرگ هستی، دزدی کردن از یه آدم فقیر مثل خودت چقدر بی اخلاقیه؟ یا اینکه چقدر میشه توی این شرایط به وجدان وفادار بود و دروغ نگفت؟ من فکر میکنم توی این شرایط، اخلاقمدار بودن دیوونگیه. همون طور که قهرمان بی نام این داستان هم به نوعی دیوانه بود.
.....
این رمان خیلی بی نام و نشانه، اما اثر مهمی توی ادبیات عه و الهام بخش نویسندگان بزرگه. برای اينکه بتونید مقایسه کنید، این کتاب داستانی شبیه جنایت و مکافات و یا مسخ داره. به طور جدی پیشنهاد میکنم بخونیدش. بی نهایت روانشناسانه و دقیق گرسنگی رو تحلیل کرده. مونولوگ های شاهکار زیادی داره که مطنعنم باعث میشه با آقای گرسنه همذات پنداری کنید. آه روح آقای هامسون باید برای این ریویوو بهم پول بده. :))
اما با این همه چرا بهش ۴ دادم؟ خب صادقانه بگم که با ۲۵ صفحه آخر کتاب اصلا حال نکردم و همونطور که به همخوان گلم گفتم، انگار یک نویسنده دیگه اونو نوشته یا هامسون وسط نوشتن پاشده رفته فوتسال .
با این وجود، بازم دوستش داشتم و افتخار رفتن توی لیست کتاب های محبوبم رو بهش میدم .
...
این ریویوو رو بدون دوباره خوندنش آپدیت میکنم، فارغ از غلط های نگارشی و تایپو ها امیدوارم اونقدر ترغیب کننده باشه که همین الان توی فهرست وانت تو رید تون ادش کنید. و امیدوارم آنقدر خوش بخت باشید که هدیه بگیریدش :)))
December 13, 2016
بارها به این فکر کردهام که من کجای هرم مزلو هستم؟ دستکم این را پذیرفتهام که اگر آدم مدام دغدغهی نیازهای ابتداییاش را داشته باشد، کمتر میتواند به کیفیت زندگیاش فکر کند. آدم میتواند مثل راوی رمان گرسنه به مرتبهی سگی برسد که برای استخوانی بدون گوشت التماس میکند، با اینهمه چیزی در انسان هست که او را از این کار بازمیدارد. انسانیتی که باید حفظ شود. شاید به این دلیل که این تنها دارایی مشترک همهی انسانهای فقیر و ثروتمند است.
همین که کتاب را شروع کردم، فکر کردم که باز دارم رمانی شبیه «مالوی» را میخوانم و نکونالم درآمد. اما بعد جهان این کتاب را یکسر متفاوت از کتاب «بکت» دیدم. شما راوی را دوست دارید. او نمیخواهد که افکارش را تجزیه و تحلیل کند، بلکه همواره در پی رفتن از این لحظه به لحظهی دیگر است. سیالیتی که در روایت داستان وجود دارد آنچنان خواننده را با راوی همراه میکند که گویی رنجهای راوی همان رنجهای خواننده است.
*این کتاب جز لیست هزار و یک کتابی است که باید قبل از مرگ خواند.
همین که کتاب را شروع کردم، فکر کردم که باز دارم رمانی شبیه «مالوی» را میخوانم و نکونالم درآمد. اما بعد جهان این کتاب را یکسر متفاوت از کتاب «بکت» دیدم. شما راوی را دوست دارید. او نمیخواهد که افکارش را تجزیه و تحلیل کند، بلکه همواره در پی رفتن از این لحظه به لحظهی دیگر است. سیالیتی که در روایت داستان وجود دارد آنچنان خواننده را با راوی همراه میکند که گویی رنجهای راوی همان رنجهای خواننده است.
*این کتاب جز لیست هزار و یک کتابی است که باید قبل از مرگ خواند.
April 22, 2022
What a perfect portrayal of the psychological and physical effects of hunger on a person. Of his rantings and ravings, his hallucinations and inner dialogues and his pride, chivalry, integrity and principles. "It is the reign of Autumn, the height of the Carnival of Decay, the roses have got inflammation in their blushes, an uncanny hectic tinge, through their soft damask."
The narrator is an unnamed writer who is suffering from hunger and homelessness. He tries to survive from day to day by writing articles for newspapers. He pawns everything he owns, everything except his small pencil and some papers. He even tries to pawn his old borrowed blanket and coat buttons to no avail!..."I was drunk with starvation; my hunger had made me tipsy."
I am emotionally drained! How often, during reading this dark and extremely realistic novel i wished i could be there to help this impoverished man. To share my food and fire with him, to hold his hands and tell him not to lose hope, not to give up. After all, "It is a splendid thing to exist sometimes!"
The narrator is an unnamed writer who is suffering from hunger and homelessness. He tries to survive from day to day by writing articles for newspapers. He pawns everything he owns, everything except his small pencil and some papers. He even tries to pawn his old borrowed blanket and coat buttons to no avail!..."I was drunk with starvation; my hunger had made me tipsy."
I am emotionally drained! How often, during reading this dark and extremely realistic novel i wished i could be there to help this impoverished man. To share my food and fire with him, to hold his hands and tell him not to lose hope, not to give up. After all, "It is a splendid thing to exist sometimes!"
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