Hunger (1890): Knut Hamsun's masterwork, wonderfully translated from the original version

 Knut Hamsun's most well-known novel is certainly Hunger (1859-1952).

Hunger (1890) by Knut Hamsun translation on Amazon

It gained renown to the thirty-year-old author, who had already produced literary works in the late 1870s and had resided in the United States from 1882 to 1888. It took another thirty years for Knut Hamsun to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for his life's work. The fact that the Norwegian author openly backed Nazi Socialism and was condemned to a substantial fine after WWII for cooperating with the German occupation still has an impact on how his works are perceived today. Notwithstanding the justified criticisms of Hamsun's political attitude, there is hungera superb work that established the author as the leading exponent of contemporary literature in the late nineteenth/early twentieth century.

And, fortunately for German-speaking readers, Menasse Verlag released Ulrich Sonnenberg's new translation in January, after the initial edition from 1890. Although nothing actually happens, we read the novel breathlessly from the first to the last page and follow with fascination the first-person narrator's linguistic escapades, desolate crashes, sometimes stunningly funny, sometimes grotesquely self-overestimating stories of a young man who, in merciless openness, spreads its trials and tribulations in front of us readers.

The male protagonist narrates his everyday life in great detail and in a truly fantastic fashion in four sections, titled "Pieces," as he experiences it during an unfavorable fall and frigid winter. Hunger is his constant companion, a hunger that brings him to his knees, causes him to suffer the most dreadful torments, and even tempts him to steal, but which does not prevent him from speaking, rather enabling him to achieve top linguistic achievements in which he reveals his desolate situation with his own humor in a mixture of megalomania, desperation, overestimation, and lack of reality.

The young guy strolls, runs, stumbles, and tumbles through Kristiania, Norway's capital at the time, in quest of money and food, motivated by tremendous hunger, which occasionally causes him to speak incoherently. He does, in fact, overdue rent on multiple occasions and must thus vacate his room. He doesn't know until later that he won't be allowed to remain overnight, but that's no problem for someone like him:

Through mental associations, I found myself in a large room with two windows where I once lived in Haegdehaugen [North-West part of Kristiania], on the table was a tray full of well-topped smrrebrds that transformed into a beefsteak, a tempting beefsteak, a snow-white napkin, loads of bread, and a silver fork. Then the door opened, and my landlady entered, bringing me some tea... apparitions and silly dreams.

 

Meanwhile, he can't eat anything since "I wasn't that inclined; it was something particular about me, a peculiarity," he stated.

An editor who gives him ten crowns for one of his texts eventually acknowledges him as a brilliant feuilletonist, sparing him for the time being. 

Retelling the narrative will fail. But every word, every detour into even the slightest narrative, every journey to the pawn shop or to visit Ylajali, the enigmatic woman he keeps meeting, must be read. Is she real, or simply a ghost? The protagonist is continuously encountering individuals, many of whom he greets by name but who swiftly disappear. And each of these interactions inspires him to tell another narrative, to demonstrate once again his talent as a writer: "I was entirely captivated by my own stories, bizarre images flashed before my eyes, blood rose to my head, and I burst out laughing." A split second later, he views himself as the loser.

The last crisis had hit me pretty badly; my hair fell out in clumps, the headache was also very unpleasant, especially in the morning, and the nervousness would not subside. During the day I would sit and write with my hands wrapped in rags just because I couldn't bear my own breath on them. […] I was pretty much at the end.

 He frequently converses with God, in whose existence he wishes to trust, but this is not easy:

[I] stopped in the middle of the road and said loudly, clenching my fists: I'll tell you one thing, my dear Lord, you're a bastard!" Angry, teeth clenched, I nod up at the clouds: "Zum Hell, you're a bastard!"

Then I took a few steps and stopped again. Suddenly I change my behavior, I fold my hands, tilt my head and ask in a sweetly pious voice: "Did you also turn to Him, my child?"

It didn't sound right.

With a capital I, I say, with an I like a cathedral. And again, "Did you call Him too, my child?" And I bow my head, letting my voice teary and answering, "No!"

That didn't sound right either.

You can't pretend anyway, you fool! […]

So I go and train myself in hypocrisy, stamping impatiently in the street when I fail and calling myself an idiot while astonished passers-by turn to look at me.

 

 It is sections like this, with the usual Hunger alternating of present and imperfect tense, that pique the reader's interest in this guy in peril, who does not appear particularly sympathetic, but who manages to win over the readers with his stories and captivate their attention. As a result, we can only concur with Felicitas Hoppe's conclusion in her illuminating afterword:

Hamsun's megalomania is grounded in world-experienced comedy, which continues to expose our conventions and throws our provincial fears into the balance.

After all, we all dream of turning our humiliations into literary triumphs. Hamsun showed us how to do it masterfully. With all the risks and side effects. And to this day no one is doing it for him.