Hamsun Knut Hamsun Hunger

Title: Hunger Author: Hamsun Knut Hamsun Format: Paperback Language: English Pages: 168 Publisher: , 0 ISBN: 1604248556 Format: PDF / Kindle / ePub Size: 9.7 MB Download: allowed

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Knut Hamsun was a major Norwegian author who received the Noble Prize for Literature for his novel Growth of the Soil in 1920. Hamsun writing makes excellent use of symbolism. Hamsun saw man and nature united in a strong bond that could almost be considered mystical. Hunger was an autobiographical novel published in 1890. The story centers around a poor young writer who is driven to the edge of self-destruction by outside forces, Hamsun does an excellent job of telling this young man's story through his eloquent literary style

Insightful reviews

Seemita: 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. 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.

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Madeleine: Like apparently so many others, my love of Bukowski led me to Knut Hamsun, particularly this short but harrowing piece. In Buk's poem "you might as well kiss your ass goodbye," my literary hero asks one of his own, "Sir.... that first novel, did you really eat your own / flesh as a young writer? were you that / hungry?," leaving me to ask how can one NOT give in to curiosity when presented with bait that's so temptingly flavored with desperation and meat of the scribe? Besides, reading the very book that left such an irreversible impact on Buk the same way that his poetry has affected me was the kind of atemporal unity of shared reading experiences that makes me love discovering my favorite writers' favorite writers even more.

If I hadn't realized a long time ago that the romance surrounding the life of a starving artist is more of a well-manufactured lie than an honest portrayal of an uncertain existence that's fraught with so many basic concerns that any hope of creative output is thwarted by the much more biologically imperative pursuits of food and shelter, Hunger would have been a rude awakening.

Ostensibly, this is about a homeless, jobless and increasingly hairless writer's slow descent into madness through hunger: hunger for food, for shelter, for adequate company, for letting his talent flow from his brain through his pencil to the page. He is completely at the mercy of the notion that creative greatness can't be rushed and he suffers poignantly (and sometimes with a dark humor) for it. He goes days without eating, he pawns his possessions nearly to nakedness, he chews on wood chips (and, yes, his own fingers) for sustenance, he sleeps outside as a brutally cold Scandinavian winter bears down on his little patch of Norway. It is the ultimate ballad for what can be sacrificed in order to live through just one more unforgiving day, how the hope of publication propels the despondent writer in his peregrinations.

As the story trundles on and Hamsun avails himself (or attempts to, being limited not by his own fading conscience but rather the standards of those to whom he tries selling his possessions) of everything down to the buttons of his coat, it becomes increasingly clear that those who are blessed with talents they are meant to share with the world can stand to lose everything of material worth so long as they keep those precious mental facilities about them, as evidenced by Hamsun's mounting fear of permanent madness: Losing his mind for good means that he has lost the one true asset that is the essence of his being and, at a survival level, makes him economically viable again so he can afford to focus on the outpouring of words that he is so clearly meant to leave behind as inspiration to generations of his literary successors.

Ian Agadada-Davida: starvation Eats the SoulThis isn't really a lot the tale of the increase and fall of a tender guy (published in 1890), as one among his relentless actual and non secular decline.He by no means turns out to have risen within the first place, and his fall appears unimpeded, even if momentarily it appeared that love may possibly redeem him.In the absence of consummation, desire or redemption, the unconventional eschews any dramatic pressure that an Aristotelian 3 act constitution may perhaps offer, and easily plummets downwards.Early, the protagonist announces:"Elated with a feeling of achievement and overrated with joy, i believe on best of the world."Later he's possessed by way of "a so much violent frenzy" (1), "bursting with impotent hatred and over excited with rage".He turns his again on God and "The signal of the Cross" and complains, "Did you body my center on your sleep?"What is the Objective?Set in an Oslo rebadged as Kristiania (from 1877 to 1925), it sort of feels to be a caution that hunger, deprivation, soreness and hopelessness can happen within the center of Christendom, that everyone is accountable for their very own well-being, that there are not any defense nets.Only the poignancy of the message derives no longer lots from a sympathy for what could turn into referred to as Social Democracy or the Welfare State, yet a worldview that might later emerge within the philosophy of Ayn Rand, Objectivism.At one point, the protagonist mistakenly dates a task program "1848" (possibly a reversal of 1884?), the Spring of countries or yr of Revolutions for plenty of eu countries (but now not Norway). Are we intended to deduce that any juvenile aid of Socialism may be punished? So, as in line with Ayn Rand, you're liable for feeding yourself, and when you fail to, you've got basically your self to blame, even in a nominally Christian society. Perhaps, God is helping simply those that aid themselves. Or within the phrases of Euripides:"Try first thyself, and after name in God; For to the employee God himself lends aid."Only the following God doesn’t lend aid. Instead:"God had caught his finger down into the community of my nerves and gently, fairly casually, introduced a bit confusion one of the threads.""A extremely important element in My Allegory"At least, the protagonist (also the

1st individual narrator) doesn’t die. whereas a lot of the tale is within the current tense, for immediacy, it's instructed in retrospect, so we all know he survives his ordeal, in basic terms except the truth that he embarks on a voyage or break out from damnation, we don’t understand what turns into of him or how or why (except maybe that at some point he again to Kristiania, "where the home windows shone so brightly in each home," safe in God’s love).There is not any uplifting ethical in the textile of the novel, just a one-dimensional lesson in aversion. Ultimately, whether the language is strikingly sleek and beautiful, it’s a really grim fairy tale.Footnote:(1) I swear that even after numerous edits of this review, i did not realize that I had typed "a such a lot violent frenzy" as "a wet violet frenzy".

Fewlas: Dato che l. a. situazione è una matassa più ingarbugliata del solito, comincio da lontano; mi dispiace ma non posso fare altrimenti.Mio padre aveva venti anni e studiava a Roma. Leggeva un sacco. Un libro a notte, da quanto mi racconta, anche se dubito che sia vero. Comunque, racconta che un giorno aveva voglia di qualcosa di diverso, che non fosse un Classico, che fosse qualcosa di potente e di eccitante; allora il commesso gli diede Bukowski.Una decina di anni fa ero imbambolata davanti alla libreria di mio padre, annoiata e disperata. Ero un’adolescente disperata, avevo fame, volevo saziarmi con qualcosa di disperato come me. Non c’era niente che mi ispirasse. period tutto nero, come los angeles vita.

Quindi mio padre si avvicinò e mi disse che mi avrebbe dato qualcosa di disperato come me. E mi diede Bukowski.Quando, dopo anni, ormai conoscevo bene Bukowski, un pomeriggio digitai il suo nome in line with l’ennesima volta su Google e ne venne fuori qualcosa di grande: los angeles sua firma sotto advert un’introduzione che lui aveva scritto according to Ask the dust.

Insomma, mi fece conoscere Fante. Quel titolo, Chiedi alla polvere mi suonava tanto biblico. Mi dicevo che sicuramente period qualcosa preso dalla Bibbia. Manco in step with niente.. period preso da Pan di Hamsun. Quel nome è rimasto a fermentare nel mio cervello in line with qualche anno. E ora, finalmente, Fame !!!!Fame è considerato un libro psicologico e, in molte recensioni, si legge di circulate of consciousness. Definizione, secondo me, di cui un po’ si abusa. Perché se di flusso si vuol parlare, allora dovremmo piuttosto dire che in questo caso abbiamo un flusso di febbricitanti deliri causati dalla fame, una cascata di disperazione, un oceano di desolazione. Il protagonista è uno scrittore che lotta in line with l. a. propria vita according to le strade di Christiania (ora Oslo). Non ha una corona in tasca e ha tanta fame, ha lo stomaco che lotta in line with non cominciare a divorar se stesso. Lui è uno scrittore senza un tetto, che si arrangia dando in pegno qualsiasi cosa. Però alla high-quality non c’è più niente da dar via. Gli restano solo quegli attimi in cui l’ispirazione gli fa visita e gli fa scrivere qualche articolo according to il giornale. E allora può comprarsi una bistecca, o un panino col burro. Gli piace considerarsi un uomo onesto, quindi non ruba, non vuole accettare l’elemosina, è in una situazione disperata. Ma quando tu sei lì che leggi los angeles sua fame, il suo dolore, e pensi che poco gli manca da vivere, lui ti sorprende. Che pazzo che period stato a dimenticare il suo orgoglio! Che stupido a pensare che fosse tutto perduto! los angeles soluzione è un truciolo di legno che può masticare ingannando il suo mostro personale, l. a. fame. Così potrà avere qualche ora in più in line with terminare il suo articolo. l. a. soluzione è los angeles spilla da balia trovata in line with strada che lui può usare al posto dei bottoni. Così può dare i bottoni in pegno! È una lenta discesa verso gli inferi. Ha los angeles febbre, ha fame, delira, parla da solo. Vaneggia compiendo azioni da pazzi. cube cose senza senso. Segue ragionamenti che solo lui può comprendere.Non si può spiegare Fame. Se dovessi scegliere una sola parola in line with definirlo, probabilmente urlerei disperata: ”Magnificenza!!!”. È un libro che scivola

through velocemente, tanto è scritto bene. È così reale da farti torcere lo stomaco. Vai a leggere los angeles information di pubblicazione e dici:”Ma come? 1890??”. È un costante grido di disperazione, di lotta according to l. a. sopravvivenza, YLAJALI!. Se leggerete il libro capirete questo grido, capirete che los angeles sua disperazione si concentra anche in queste lettere sconnesse, in questa parola inventata, una porta che si apre su fantasie che sono un balsamo consistent with los angeles disperazione.. YLAJALI!Per concludere torno su Bukowski. Perché in quell’introduzione advert Ask the nightfall racconta di come un giorno in libreria non riuscisse a trovare niente che gli andasse (ce l’ho solo in Inglese, purtroppo):"I used to be a tender man, ravenous and consuming and attempting to be a writer. I did so much of my studying on the downtown L.A. Public Library, and not anything that I learn concerning me or to the streets or the folk approximately me. It appeared as though each person was once enjoying word-tricks, that those that stated nearly not anything in any respect have been thought of very good writers […] What i wished looked to be absent everywhere."Poi un giorno anche io come Bukowski, girando in una giostra di continui rimandi da libro a libro, da scrittore a scrittore, ho trovato ciò di cui avevo bisogno, ed è stato così:"Then in the future I pulled a booklet down and opened it, and there it was. I stood for a moment, reading. Then like a guy who had chanced on gold within the urban dump, I carried the e-book to a table. The strains rolled simply around the page, there has been a flow. each one line had its personal strength and was once through one other like it. The very substance of every line gave the web page a form, a sense of anything carved into it. And there, at last, was once a guy who was once now not frightened of emotion.

The humour and the soreness have been intermixed with an excellent simplicity. the start of that booklet used to be a wild and massive miracle to me."Queste parole Bukowski le ha scritte dopo aver letto Ask the dirt e, soprattutto le ultime che ho messo in grassetto, in line with me corrispondono a quello che ho provato leggendo dapprima Bukowski, poi Fante, ed infine Hamsun. Hamsun in keeping with ultimo, anche se è stato il primo a creare questo tipo di letteratura che mi piace tanto. Uno rimanda all’altro, una casa degli specchi dove si riflettono parole e frasi disperate, vite di scrittori che lottano consistent with l’ispirazione, in keeping with urlare sulla pagina los angeles propria vita. E mi sembra che con Hamsun non sia finita. Mi sembra che anche io venga riflessa insieme a loro in questi giochi di rimandi tra specchio e specchio, tra libro e libro. Loro con l. a. reputation hanno scritto dei capolavori. Io non farò lo stesso. Ma, grazie a loro, so che los angeles speranza è davvero l’ultima a morire.

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