Stephen's Reviews > Hunger

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!.