Have you ever looked at one of those glass break in case of fire alarms and felt an overwhelming urge to hit it? Or looked out over a high balcony and inexplicably, though absolutely not suicidal, wanted to jump? I have. But, for the time being at least, enough about the author, what about me? Now, I don’t agree with his methods, but I think you can see this incident in another way, a way that is linked to understanding the novel under review here. Was this a cry for help, a genuine bid for death, or a prank? Most agree on the latter, whilst also asserting, for the record, that Hamsun was clearly completely fucking bats. Hamsun had painted an angel of death on the ceiling. Smoke the cigar and stick the knife into my heart.ĭo it quickly, decisively and as a friend, if you value my affection. On the table was a knife, a cigar, and a note. In the year 1882, Knut Hamsun’s roommate returned home to find the author in bed asleep.
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