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Sult
Sult
Sult
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Sult

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

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LanguageDansk
Release dateJan 1, 1923
Sult
Author

Knut Hamsun

Born in 1859, Knut Hamsun published a stunning series of novels in the 1890s: Hunger (1890), Mysteries (1892) and Pan (1894). He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1920 for Growth of the Soil.

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Rating: 4.070366804232805 out of 5 stars
4/5

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Before Jay McInerney, J.D. Salinger and Albert Camus came Knut Hamsun. Hunger is a masterpeice study of human nature and the absurdity of life. This book is #1 on my all time favorites list.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Hunger by Knut Hamsun is a loosely autobiographical novel about a young man down on his luck, starving to death and the slow decline as he sells off bits and pieces of his life to the Uncle. While he wanders about the town he runs into several characters. This unnamed narrator is quite proud and can barely allow anyone to help him. He would rather give away than receive. It reminded me a bit of Dostoyevsky and also a bit of Ulysses as the main character wanders about the town meeting up with various people. This is a turn of the century psychological driven novel and explores the irrationality of the mind. Of Christiana (Oslo) the protagonist states, “no man departs without carrying away the traces of his sojourn there. The contrast is the outer respectability, mental and physical decay. Symbols of the decay are the words starved, winding sheets, Autumn, die, room compared to a sinister coffin. The winding sheets (for wrapping the deceased body) repeats several times.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    What a rollercoaster! Reading this book took a lot out of me. Not because it's hard to read, but because the main character's (unnamed) constant changes in mood. He'll be riding on clouds at first, then he's acting as if he's the scourge of the earth. You really get caught up in it, and that all points back to the author's ability. The ending was a little abiguous to me, though. I don't like leaving my characters to an uncertain future.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This is Knut Hamsun's best novel. Victoria is also excellent, but Hunger talks about the emotional longing more than the physical.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A stark portrait of hunger and its effects on the psyche, this book follows an unnamed narrator as he experiences periods of near starvation in 1890s Oslo (then known as Christiana). An author by trade, the young man struggles to write while falling in and out of starvation-induced madness. He is at turns homeless and penniless. The reader is treated to his inner life and the social consequences he suffers secondary to his impoverished status. The reader would be hard-pressed to find a more realistic portrayal of the psyche of one who knows hunger on a daily basis.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    He was just hungry for 120 pages.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Hunger is set in Kristiania, Norway (renamed Oslo in 1925) and is the rather dire tale of a struggling impoverished writer, who struggles to not only keep a roof over his head, but also to provide himself with enough food to eat as well as keeping himself properly clothed for winter.It is a book that makes you thankful to live in a time when society provides social security benefits so that people need not starve to death*.It's a relatively quick read at a mere 134 pages, but at times its contents are nonetheless rather harrowing such as when the protagonist cuts the buttons of his jacket in an attempt to pawn them to be able to buy a morsel of food.*Generally speaking, I'm aware this does not exist in all countries at the present time.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Someday I'll actually sit down and write a real book review and when I do, it might just be on this book. Hunger struck a chord in me. Maybe it's all the Gogol and Dostoevsky I've read and loved over the years. This book is indeed disturbing and describes hunger in such detail that it makes the reader feel the desperation, feel the hunger. There are scenes that a reader will likely never forget.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I probably didn't read this closely enough to say anything particularly intelligent about it. It has no plot, no character development, and very little in the way of logical organization of any kind. This is all clearly intentional: a literary polemic against the three volume novel that proceeds in a stately manner towards marriage or death. So if you've only ever read Victorian era novels, you'll probably be greatly shocked at this. If you've read anything else, you won't be.
    More interesting than the differences between this and, say, Great Expectations are the differences between this and all the stuff everyone compares it to: twentieth century absurdist or existentialist fiction. The translator of this edition says that the protagonist experiences Heidegger's 'authentic being towards death'. Uh... claptrap. What's fascinating about this book is that, unlike the quasi-Heideggerian anti-heroes of Camus etc, the hungry man is deeply, deeply moral. The translator suggests that this generosity is just a 'temperamental tic'. It seems to me to be much more than that, though. Here is a man who, although starving to death, is willing to give away any money he actually gets his hands on to others, simply out of compassion. He suffers for those who are beaten down even when he's the most beaten down of the lot. He's essentially a saintly aristocratic romantic artist, without the income that let most saints, aristocrats and romantic artists swan around the world doing their thing. If he's crazy, it's a good madness. If he's sane, he's a genuine moral hero, despite his occasional peccadilloes. I suspect the best comparison might be to ancient cynics who embraced poverty and lived disgusting lives as a mockery of social norms. Except this modern cynic is aware that social norms are all we've got: he just lives up to the ideals his society produced, while the society itself goes on whoring, materialistic and angry.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A chilling novel. A stark, uncompromising look at the horrors of literary life in Oslo at the turn to the twentieth century Oslo. To be read by anyone contemplating a life in literary pursuits. It will deter some.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This book reminded me of Crime and Punishment. It is an easy read but hard to put down. It is a stream of consciousness narrative without much of a plot and an early example of post-modernism. While reading this book about someone who is truly hungry you can see how there is a fine line between reality and hallucination. I enjoyed it very much and I would recommend this book to those who like books about life in late 19th century in northern Europe.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I read the Bly translation.

    My edition had an intro by Paul Auster. It took me forever to get through the intro, the book was much more interesting. But between the intro and the afterword (by Bly) I ended up with a lot of questions:

    1) Auster implies the Hamsun starved himself for art, and to have material to create his art. And when he was done, he left
    2) Bly makes it clear that though this novel is based on his life, it is not an autobiography. Hamsun was starving on and off for 10 years, trying to make it as a writer. He did 2 stints working in the US, each of multiple years, during those 10 years. Bly suggests his unusual writing style (obvious in Norwegian, not in the translation) was caused by his time spent in the US. After Hunger was published, he was not hungry again.

    So--did he starve on purpose as art? Or was he a 19th century "starving artist" trying to succeed at his chosen craft, taking other jobs as needed to live?

    Anyway, this book does not read like a 19th century book at all. It feels much more mid 20th century, as there is not a plot exactly. He's not telling a story per se--he's telling about what it's like to be a struggling writer in Christiania, with no family help, friends as down as you, and what that is like.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I really don't know what I think about this Norwegian classic by Nobel Laureate Knut Hamsun. Even my rating is a bit of a guess!I found this very easy to read and the effects of extreme poverty on the main character were fascinating to behold. But I found this unnamed character very odd in places. I could understand to some extent his pride leading him to doing some things that could be seen as foolish but some of his pranks were bizarre.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The ending was a disappointment.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I found this to be simultaneously an easy read and a difficult one. It's a slim book, and the language is straightforward, which made it easy. But the descriptions of being hungry and hopeless were often oppressively vivid. The narrator is a writer; he occasionally gets pieces published in the local newspaper, but the money never lasts long. Almost before the euphoria from getting paid fades, he is broke and starving again. He pawns everything he owns. He becomes homeless. He tries to get a regular job, but a minor error means he isn't considered. He tries to concentrate, to write, to bring himself out of his hunger-induced confusion long enough to sell another piece, but it's hard to focus.Hamsun does an incredible job describing the feeling of being hungry, and the results of starvation on one's mind. But more than that, he gets at the very essence of the dehumanizing feelings of being poor, of finding oneself an outcast from society. He makes the reader feel the despair and devaluation, while still keeping alive the glimmers of hope that the narrator maintains. It's a powerful look into what it is like to be on the bottom of the ladder.Recommended for: anyone who's ever felt like they just couldn't catch a break, people not on a dietQuote: Whatever could be the reason that things would not brighten up for me? Was I not just as much entitled to live as anyone else?
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This novel is stark, emotionally evocative and on a primal level, terrifying. If you dare, enter the psyche of the narrator, a writer, who waivers between abject poverty and death. Suffer along with him as Hamsun's brilliant writing takes the reader to the brink of utter madness, sublime passion, and death by starvation. In the end, what is the hunger for in addition to food? You will have to suffer the throes of despair and humiliation of the protagonist to find out!
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    So realistic, I thought I was starving. Very compelling.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Hamsun deftly portrays the irrationality of the human mind assailed by hunger in a unique and often amusing manner. The narrator's psychological state is very well-developed and Hamsun's prose brings to life the intricacies of the human mind; Hamsun also portrays Oslo (then called Kristiana) in a realist manner.

    Similar to Crime and Punishment (since Fyodor Dostoevsky was one of Hamsun's main influences), Hunger is an expert piece of psychological drama and an excellent introduction to Hamsun's work.

    This particular edition also had an appendix by the translator (Sverre Lyngstad) on the troubles translating Hunger into English, which was particularly informative since Hamsun is a troublesome author to translate accurately owing to his expansive vocabulary and expressive style.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    An extremely well written work- the author's direct, simple and straightforward writing style makes for an appealing read on the fascinating trials and tribulations of a young man fallen into poverty, and hunger. But for the disappointing ending, I would have ranked this even higher.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    A strange, lyrical book that presents hunger as a gateway to madness.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    What an engaging feverish read! This novel does not read like it's 130 years old nor like it was translated. Very quick easy read, a page turner despite there being essentially no plot. The unnamed main character narrator borders on being annoying and exasperating, but in the end I felt mostly sympathy for him. Clearly mentally ill and constantly struggling with poverty and starvation, he makes one bad decision after another but it seems they derive largely from his last attempts to hold onto dignity and self-respect. A timely or maybe timeless tale.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    ‘Andreas Tangen’ is the fictitious name our nameless protagonist gives to the Officer on Duty the night he finds himself cold, wet, famished, keyless (not to say clueless, and consequently without even a room to go home to) and nearing delirium. His solution? To seek room and board in the city jail whence he can contemplate the rain falling on the outside.


    I only recently (July 17) read and reviewed Jack London’s Martin Eden. Knut Hamsun’s semiautobiographical Hunger could well serve as a companion piece to London’s equally semiautobiographical novel. And neither would be out of place sitting alongside Dostoyevsky’s Notes from (the) Underground.


    “‘I will read it,’ he (the editor of a city paper in Christiania) said, taking it. ‘Of course everything you write will cost you labor; the only trouble with your work perhaps is excitability. If you could only be a little more composed! There is too much fever all the time. Anyway, I’ll read it.’ Then he turned to his desk work” (p. 95).


    Our anonymous protagonist’s “excitability” is quite understandable given his uncertain living conditions and constant state of hunger. And Robert Bly has done an excellent job of translating (I assume) and injecting (I don't assume) that same excitability into Hamsun’s Norwegian prose. For anyone who’s ever been homeless and felt prolonged hunger pangs for the sake of his art (or through the sheer absence of work), Hamsun’s words and Bly’s translation of those words may ring truer than any of us would care to remember. The only thing worse? I can still recall Luis Alberto Urrea’s description (in The Devil’s Highway) of what occurs when people emerge in the Arizona desert after having walked up from Mexico (or from points even further south) … and are out of water. (What happens to the human animal as it passes through the several stages of extreme dehydration is something you may be tempted to read about, but never want to actually witness.)


    In any case, our protagonist’s problem is the title of this book — and it never disappears. With hunger, comes a slow insanity. It’s not easy to read about, but both Hamsun and Bly do a superb job of portraying it in all of its insidious glory. This is indeed a case of afflictio gratia artis (suffering for the sake of art).


    RRB
    09/10/14
    Brooklyn, NY

  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Wow. That was powerful. I have to write a lot of reviews this weekend - this will be one of them.

    I find it ironic that I read this while the RNC circus is going on in FL. I wish I could force everyone there to read this book and live it. just for a short while.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    In Hunger, Hamsun has crafted a strange protagonist. He is deranged by his own arrogance, bordering on madness. Pining himself for money and food, he responds to a beggar's pleas for a handout by going to pawn his jacket and returning to the beggar, who becomes suspect. At this, the protagonist is insulted, and berates the beggar as an ungrateful wretch. The near starvation that plagues him later in the book only aggravates and accentuates his strange moods and we, being so reliant on his voice as narrative, are forced to empathize with his pitiful state. The blend of moods and images in this novel is astounding. This novel is dark, certainly, but the narrator's oddball ways give the story a comic tone. In all of it's sadness and oddity, the narrative returns frequently to beautiful and often dreamlike images. The beauty of this book is the beauty of desperation, captured here more precisely than in any other literature I have yet read. Miller approaches it, but Hamsun, by literally going for the gut, embodies it. A masterful modernist novel of emotion, sensation, and viscera.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Desperate, grim and powerful.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A Norwegian classic I finally got around to reading. The book is about a struggling writer who runs out of money and goes hungry. It didn't take me long to start feeling desperately sorry for this man. The really raw way in which his desperate hunger and, as a result, often miserable and sometimes deranged state of mind is described, made this book a very uncomfortable, but also a very thought-provoking read. Reading about the main character's unwillingness to ask for or accept charity out of pride and a sense of personal dignity genuinely frustrated me. I found myself urging the character to steal, rather than preserving his lawfulness at the risk of dying of hunger.Unfortunately, even though this book was published in 1890, it remains relevant. It will stay relevant as long as there are people who have to go hungry. Through telling a story it makes a very powerful point. No moral is stated, nor is any lecture given. It is just a story. A story which serves as a poignant reminder that no matter how uncomfortable one might be made to feel by that person sitting on the street, asking for ones money, one is extremely privileged to be the one being asked.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I started reading this book on Dec 23, 1951, and said of it: "Started reading Hunger, the book that made Knut Hamsun famous, back about 1887. He won the Nobel prize in 1920. Before his success he worked in America for a time as a streetcar conductor, but it is said he would read Euripides and forget to let the passengers off and so lost his job. On Dec 26, 1951, I said: "Finished Hunger--not impressed but it had its points."
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    As per usual I skipped the introduction until I'd finished (they're always full of spoilers) though wish I'd taken the time to read it up front, as it summarises the entire book in half a page, making the point that there's no plot and the characters--other than the mildly insane protagonist--are inconsequential. I suppose I can see why it's supposedly influential (it breaks a few c19th literary moulds) but it wasn't my bag.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I came to Knut Hamsun by way of George Egerton. Two writers few modern readers have heard of outside of academia and Norway. George Egerton (Mary Chavelita Dunne Bright) wrote two volumes of wonderful short stories, Keynotes and Discords, in the late 1890's and became one of the prominent figures in the feminist literary movement known as the "New Women." She had a romantic attachment with Norwegian writer Knut Hamsun, whom she listed as a strong influence on her own writing. In fact, she translated his first novel, Hunger, into English. Mr. Hamsun went on to win the Nobel Prize for literature in 1920, while Ms. Egerton faded into obscurity until modern critics such as Elaine Showalter rediscovered her work. I found her through Ms. Showalter's book A Literature of Their Own. Hunger is based on the ten years Mr. Hamsun spent in Christiania, now modern Oslo, trying to become a writer, earning very little money for the few articles and stories he could sell, and going without food much of the time. The novel's subject is hunger and its effects on the psychological and physical state of those who endure it. As such, it's an excellent work. Because Mr. Hamsun believed that the subject of literature should be the intricacies of the human mind, Hunger focuses on the experience and thoughts of its un-named narrator almost to the exclusion of other characters. There are other people in the book--the editor at the magazine, a landlady, an old friend who tries to offer help, a woman he meets on the streets a few times--but these characters are of little interest to Hamsun and to the reader. What interests Hamsun is the narrator's state of mind, the delusions his hunger causes, and his own desire to keep up appearances as he insists on surviving only by writing instead of taking on a profession which he feels his beneath a man of his sensibilities.Photo of author from WikipediaHunger is interesting reading, and this insistence on writing as the sole source of income eventually worked for Hamsun himself, eventually. But midway through the book, one starts wishing the narrator would simply get a job. I suppose it may be of those moments when a modern perspective intrudes on the experience of reading classic literature, but I suspect many of Mr. Hamsun's contemporaries had the same reaction. Even Franz Kafka took a job with an insurance agency, for heaven's sake. No one ever accused him of selling out.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Hunger is an autobiographical novel depicting a starving writer roaming the streets of Kristiana (now Oslo), Norway. The narrator goes from poverty, to homelessness, to starvation and delirium. He teeters on the brink of insanity before circumstances put enough food in his mouth to keep him alive and restore at least some of his faculties.Though many of the novels of that time (1890) were written to publicize social ills and human sufferings, Hunger is not this type of story. Instead, it is a psychological study of a man's descent into abjection largely by his own doing. The narrator, fixated on writing his way out of misery, never considers alternatives. He doesn't look for a job, nor does he accept charity. His warped pride, which turns gradually to delusion, almost kills him. It's no easy task to write a first-person story about someone who is going insane. Hamsun manages to do so, however, in a very clear and convincing manner. The reader somehow always know's what's real and what's not, even when it's obvious that the person telling the story does not. This is not a pleasant book to read, but it is a very important and revealing one.

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Sult - Knut Hamsun

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sult, by Knut Hamsun

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Title: Sult

Author: Knut Hamsun

Release Date: September 20, 2009 [EBook #30027]

Language: Norwegian

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SULT ***

Produced by Jens Sadowski

KNUT HAMSUN

SULT

KØBENHAVN

P. G. PHILIPSENS FORLAG

Trykt hos J. Jorgensen & Co. (M. A. Hannover)

1890

Transcriber's note

Spelling. In this first edition of Sult, old spelling rules were applied which look quite different from modern written Norwegian (bokmål). In addition, the letters Å and å where set as Aa and aa, respectively. Since many other Norwegian books printed at this time used Å and å and in order to improve readability, all Aa and aa have been converted to Å and å. Otherwise, the original spelling was not changed.

Spaced-out text. Text that was s p a c e d - o u t in the original text has been changed to use italics.

FØRSTE STYKKE

Det var i den Tid, jeg gik omkring og sulted i Kristiania, denne forunderlige By, som ingen forlader, før han har fået Mærker af den . . . .

Jeg ligger vågen på min Kvist og hører en Klokke nedenunder mig slå seks Slag; det var allerede ganske lyst, og Folk begyndte at færdes op og ned i Trapperne. Nede ved Døren, hvor mit Rum var tapetseret med gamle Numre af »Morgenbladet«, kunde jeg så tydelig se en Bekendtgørelse fra Fyrdirektøren, og lidt tilvenstre derfra et fedt, bugnende Avertissement fra Bager Fabian Olsen om nybagt Brød.

Straks jeg slog Øjnene op, begyndte jeg af gammel Vane at tænke efter, om jeg havde noget at glæde mig til idag. Det havde været lidt knapt for mig i den sidste Tid; den ene efter den anden af mine Ejendele var bragt til »Onkel«, jeg var bleven nervøs og utålsom, et Par Gange havde jeg også ligget tilsengs en Dags Tid af Svimmelhed. Nu og da, når Lykken var god, kunde jeg drive det til at få fem Kroner af et eller andet Blad for en Føljeton.

Det lysned mer og mer, og jeg gav mig til at læse på Avertissementerne nede ved Døren; jeg kunde endog skælne de magre, grinende Bogstaver om »Ligsvøb hos Jomfru Andersen, tilhøjre i Porten«. Det sysselsatte mig en lang Stund, jeg hørte Klokken slå otte nedenunder, inden jeg stod op og klædte mig på.

Jeg åbned Vinduet og så ud. Der, hvor jeg stod, havde jeg Udsigt til en Klædesnor og en åben Mark; langt ude lå Gruen tilbage af en nedbrændt Smedje, hvor nogle Arbejdere var i Færd med at rydde op. Jeg lagde mig med Albuerne ned i Vinduet og stirred ud i Luften. Det blev ganske vist en lys Dag, Høsten var kommet, den fine, svale Årstid, hvori alting skifter Farve og forgår. Støjen var allerede begyndt at lyde i Gaderne og lokked mig ud; dette tomme Værelse, hvis Gulv gynged op og ned for hvert Skridt jeg tog henover det, var som en gisten, uhyggelig Ligkiste; der var ingen ordentlig Lås for Døren og ingen Ovn i Rummet; jeg plejed at ligge på mine Strømper om Natten, forat få dem lidt tørre til om Morgenen. Det eneste, jeg havde at fornøje mig ved, var en liden rød Gyngestol, som jeg sad i om Aftenerne og døsed og tænkte på mangehånde Ting. Når det blæste hårdt, og Dørene nedenunder stod åbne, lød der alleslags underlige Hvin op gennem Gulvet og ind fra Væggene, og »Morgenbladet« nede ved Døren fik Revner så lange som en Hånd.

Jeg rejste mig og undersøgte en Byldt henne i Krogen ved Sengen efter lidt til Frokost, men fandt intet og vendte tilbage til Vinduet igen.

Gud ved, tænkte jeg, om det aldrig skal nytte mig at søge efter en Bestilling mer! Disse mange Afslag, disse halve Løfter, rene Nej, nærede og skuffede Håb, nye Forsøg, som hver Gang løb ud i intet, havde gjort det af med mit Mod. Jeg havde tilsidst søgt en Plads som Regningsbud, men var kommet forsent; desuden kunde jeg ikke skaffe Sikkerhed for femti Kroner. Der var altid et eller andet til Hinder. Jeg mældte mig også til Brandkorpset. Vi stod halvhundrede Mand i Forhallen og satte Brystet ud, forat give Indtryk af Kraft og stor Dristighed. En Fuldmægtig gik omkring og beså disse Ansøgere, følte på deres Arme og gav dem et og andet Spørgsmål, og mig gik han forbi, rysted blot på Hovedet og sagde, at jeg var kasseret på Grund af mine Briller. Jeg mødte op påny, uden Briller, jeg stod der med rynkede Bryn og gjorde mine Øjne så hvasse som Knive, og Manden gik mig atter forbi, og han smilte, — han havde kendt mig igen. Det værste af alt var, at mine Klæder var begyndt at blive så dårlige, at jeg ikke længer kunde fremstille mig til en Plads som et skikkeligt Menneske.

Hvor det havde gået jævnt og regelmæssig nedad med mig hele Tiden! Jeg stod tilsidst så besynderlig blottet for alt muligt, jeg havde ikke engang en Kam tilbage eller en Bog at læse i, når det blev mig for trist. Hele Sommeren udover havde jeg søgt ud på Kirkegårdene eller op i Slotsparken, hvor jeg sad og forfatted Artikler for Bladene, Spalte efter Spalte om de forskelligste Ting, underlige Påfund, Luner, Indfald af min urolige Hjærne; i Fortvivlelse havde jeg ofte valgt de fjærneste Emner, som voldte mig lange Tiders Anstrængelse og aldrig blev optaget. Når et Stykke var færdigt, tog jeg fat på et nyt, og jeg blev ikke ofte nedslagen af Redaktørernes Nej; jeg sagde stadig væk til mig selv, at engang vilde det jo lykkes. Og virkelig, stundom, når jeg havde Held med mig og fik det lidt godt til, kunde jeg få fem Kroner for en Eftermiddags Arbejde.

Jeg rejste mig atter op fra Vinduet, gik hen til Vaskevandsstolen og dynked en Smule Vand på mine blanke Bukseknæ, forat sværte dem lidt og få dem til at se lidt nye ud. Da jeg havde gjort dette, stak jeg som sædvanligt Papir og Blyant i Lommen og gik ud. Jeg gled meget stille nedad Trapperne, for ikke at vække min Værtindes Opmærksomhed; der var gået et Par Dage, siden min Husleje forfaldt, og jeg havde ikke noget at betale med nu mere.

Klokken var ni. Vognrammel og Stemmer fyldte Luften, et uhyre Morgenkor, blandet med Fodgængernes Skridt og Smældene fra Hyrekuskenes Svøber. Denne støjende Færdsel overalt oplived mig straks, og jeg begyndte at føle mig mer og mer tilfreds. Intet var fjærnere fra min Tanke end blot at gå en Morgentur i frisk Luft. Hvad kom Luften mine Lunger ved? Jeg var stærk som en Rise og kunde standse en Vogn med min Skulder. En fin, sælsom Stemning, Følelsen af den lyse Ligegladhed, havde bemægtiget sig mig. Jeg gav mig til at iagttage de Mennesker, jeg mødte og gik forbi, læste Plakaterne på Væggene, modtog Indtryk fra et Blik, slængt til mig fra en forbifarende Sporvogn, lod hver Bagatel trænge ind på mig, alle små Tilfældigheder, som krydsed min Vej og forsvandt.

Når man bare havde sig lidt til Mad en sådan lys Dag! Indtrykket af den glade Morgen overvælded mig, jeg blev uregerlig tilfreds og gav mig til at nynne af Glæde, uden nogén bestemt Grund. Ved en Slagterbutik stod en Kone med en Kurv på Armen og spekulered på Pølser til Middag; idet jeg passered hende, så hun hen på mig. Hun havde blot én Tand i Formunden. Nervøs og let påvirkelig som jeg var bleven de sidste Dage, gjorde Konens Ansigt straks et modbydeligt Indtryk på mig; den lange, gule Tand så ud som en liden Finger, der stod op fra Kæven, og hendes Blik var endnu fuldt af Pølse, da hun vendte det mod mig. Jeg tabte med en Gang Appetiten og følte Kvalme. Da jeg kom til Basarerne, gik jeg hen til Springet og drak lidt Vand; jeg så op — Klokken var ti i Vor Frelsers Tårn.

Jeg gik videre gennem Gaderne, drev om uden Bekymring for nogetsomhelst, standsed ved et Hjørne, uden at behøve det, bøjed af og gik en Sidegade, uden at have Ærinde derhen; jeg lod det stå til, førtes omkring i den glade Morgen, vugged mig sorgfrit frem og tilbage blandt andre lykkelige Mennesker; Luften var tom og lys, og mit Sind var uden en Skygge.

I ti Minutters Tid havde jeg stadig havt en gammel, halt Mand foran mig. Han bar en Byldt i den ene Hånd og gik med hele sit Legeme, arbejded af al Magt, forat skyde Fart. Jeg hørte, hvor han pusted af Anstrængelse, og det faldt mig ind, at jeg kunde bære hans Byldt; jeg søgte dog ikke at indhente ham. Oppe i Grændsen mødte jeg Hans Pauli, som hilste og skyndte sig forbi. Hvorfor hav de han sådant Hastværk? Jeg havde slet ikke i Sinde at bede ham om en Krone, jeg vilde også med det allerførste sende ham tilbage et Tæppe, som jeg havde lånt af ham for nogle Uger siden. Såsnart jeg var kommet lidt ovenpå, vilde jeg ikke være nogen Mand noget Tæppe skyldig; kanske begyndte jeg allerede idag en Artikel om Fremtidens Forbrydelser eller om Viljens Frihed, hvadsomhelst, noget læseværdigt noget, som jeg vilde få ti Kroner for mindst . . . . Og ved Tanken på denne Artikel følte jeg mig med en Gang gennemstrømmet af Trang til at tage fat straks og øse af min fulde Hjærne; jeg vilde finde mig et passende Sted i Slotsparken og ikke hvile, før jeg havde fået den færdig.

Men den gamle Krøbling gjorde fremdeles de samme sprællende Bevægelser foran mig i Gaden. Det begyndte tilsidst at irritere mig at have dette skrøbelige Menneske foran mig hele Tiden. Hans Rejse syntes aldrig at ville tage Ende; måske havde han bestemt sig til akkurat det samme Sted som jeg, og jeg skulde hele Vejen have ham for mine Øjne. I min Ophidselse forekom det mig, at han ved hver Tvergade sagtned en Smule og ligesom vented på, hvilken Retning jeg vilde tage, hvorpå han igen svang Byldten højt i Luften og gik til af yderste Magt, forat få Forsprang. Jeg går og ser på dette masede Væsen og blir mer og mer opfyldt af Forbittrelse mod ham; jeg følte, at han lidt efter lidt ødelagde min lyse Stemning og trak den rene, skønne Morgen med sig ned i Hæslighed med det samme. Han så ud som et stort humpende Insekt, der med Vold og Magt vilde slå sig til en Plads i Verden og forbeholde sig Fortouget for sig selv alene. Da vi var kommet på Toppen af Bakken, vilde jeg ikke længer finde mig i det, jeg vendte mig mod et Butiksvindu og standsed, forat give ham Anledning til at komme væk. Da jeg efter nogle Minutters Forløb atter begyndte at gå, var Manden foran mig igen, også han havde stået bom stille. Jeg gjorde, uden at tænke mig om, tre fire rasende Skridt fremad, indhented ham og slog Manden på Skulderen.

Han standsed med ét. Vi gav os begge til at stirre på hinanden.

»En liden Skilling til Melk!« sagde han endelig og lagde Hovedet på Siden.

Se så, nu stod jeg godt i det! Jeg følte i Lommerne og sagde:

»Til Melk ja. Hm. Det er småt med Pengene i disse Tider, og jeg ved ikke, hvor trængende De kan være.«

»Jeg har ikke spist siden igår i Drammen,« sagde Manden; »jeg ejer ikke en Øre, og jeg har ikke fået Arbejde endnu.«

»Er De Håndværker?«

»Ja, jeg er Nådler.«

»Hvilket?«

»Nådler. Forresten kan jeg også gøre Sko.«

»Det forandrer Sagen,« sagde jeg. »De får vente her i nogle Minutter, så skal jeg gå efter lidt Penger til Dem, nogle Øre.«

Jeg gik i største Hast nedad Pilestrædet, hvor jeg vidste om en Pantelåner i anden Etage; jeg havde forøvrigt aldrig været hos ham før. Da jeg kom ind i Porten, trak jeg skyndsomt min Vest af, rulled den sammen og stak den under Armen; derpå gik jeg opad Trappen og banked på til Sjappen. Jeg bukked og kasted Vesten på Disken.

»Halvanden Krone,« sagde Manden.

»Ja ja, Tak,« svared jeg. »Havde det ikke været det, at den begyndte at blive lidt for knap til mig, så vilde jeg ikke have skilt mig ved den, naturligvis.«

Jeg fik Pengene og Sedlen og begav mig tilbage. Det var i Grunden et udmærket Påfund, dette med Vesten; jeg vilde endog få Penge tilovers til en rigelig Frokost, og inden Aften skulde så min Afhandling om Fremtidens Forbrydelser være istand. Jeg begyndte på Stedet at finde Tilværelsen blidere, og jeg skyndte mig tilbage til Manden, forat få ham fra Hånden.

»Værsågod!« sagde jeg til ham. »Det glæder mig, at De har henvendt Dem til mig først.«

Manden tog Pengene og begyndte at mønstre mig med Øjnene. Hvad stod han og stirred efter? Jeg havde det Indtryk, at han især undersøgte mine Bukseknæ, og jeg blev træt af denne Uforskammethed. Troed Slyngelen, at jeg virkelig var så fattig som jeg så ud for? Havde jeg måske ikke sågodtsom begyndt at skrive på en Artikel til ti Kroner? Overhovedet frygted jeg ikke for Fremtiden, jeg havde mange Jærn i Ilden. Hvad kom det så et vild fremmed Menneske ved, om jeg gav bort en Drikkeskilling på en sådan lys Dag? Mandens Blik irritered mig, og jeg beslutted mig til at give ham en Irettesættelse, inden jeg forlod ham. Jeg trak på Skuldrene og sagde:

»Min gode Mand, De har lagt Dem til den stygge Uvane at glo en Mand på Knæerne, når han giver Dem en Krones Penge.«

Han lagde Hovedet helt tilbage mod Muren og spærred Munden op. Der arbejded noget bag hans Stodderpande, han tænkte ganske vist, at jeg vilde narre ham på en eller anden Måde, og han rakte mig Pengene tilbage.

Jeg stamped i Gaden og svor på, at han skulde beholde dem. Indbildte han sig, at jeg vilde have alt det Bryderi for ingenting? Når alt kom til alt skyldte jeg ham måske denne Krone, jeg havde det med at huske en gammel Gæld, han stod foran et retskaffent Menneske, ærlig ud i Fingerspidserne. Kortsagt, Pengene var hans . . . . Å, ikke noget at takke for, det havde været mig en Glæde. Farvel.

Jeg gik. Endelig havde jeg denne værkbrudne Plageånd afvejen, og jeg kunde være uforstyrret. Jeg tog atter ned gennem Pilestrædet og standsed udenfor en Husholdningshandel. Der lå fuldt op af Mad i Vinduet, og jeg bestemte mig til at gå ind og få mig lidt med på Vejen.

»Et Stykke Ost og et Franskbrød!« sagde jeg og slængte min Halvkrone på Disken.

»Ost og Brød for altsammen?« spurgte Konen ironisk, uden at se på mig.

»For hele femti Øre ja,« s vared jeg uforstyrret.

Jeg fik mine Sager, sagde yderst høfligt Godmorgen til den gamle, fede Kone og begav mig sporenstrængs opad Slotsbakken til Parken. Jeg fandt mig en Bænk for mig selv og begyndte at gnave grådigt af min Niste. Det gjorde godt; det var længe siden jeg havde fået et så rundeligt Måltid, og jeg følte lidt efter lidt den samme mætte Ro i mig, som én føler efter en lang Gråd. Mit Mod steg stærkt; det var mig ikke længer nok at skrive en Artikel om noget så enkelt og ligetil som Fremtidens Forbrydelser, som desuden hvemsomhelst kunde gætte sig til, ligefrem læse sig til i Historien; jeg følte mig istand til en større Anstrængelse, jeg var i Stemning til at overvinde Vanskeligheder, og jeg bestemte mig for en Afhandling i tre Afsnit om den filosofiske Erkendelse. Naturligvis vilde jeg få Lejlighed til at knække ynkeligt nogle af Kants Sofismer . . . . Da jeg vilde tage mine Skrivesager frem og begynde Arbejdet, opdaged jeg, at jeg ikke længer havde nogen Blyant hos mig; jeg havde glemt den efter mig i Pantelånersjappen; min Blyant lå i Vestelommen.

Herregud hvor dog alting havde Lyst til at gå forkært for mig! Jeg banded nogle Gange, rejste mig op fra Bænken og drev frem og tilbage i Gangene. Det var meget stille overalt; langt borte, ved Dronningens Lysthus, rulled et Par Barnepiger sine Vogne omkring, ellers var der ikke et Menneske at se noget Sted. Jeg var dygtig forbittret i Sind og spadsered som en rasende foran min Bænk, Hvor mærkelig vrangt gik det dog ikke på alle Kanter! En Artikel i tre Afsnit skulde ligefrem strande på den simple Ting, at jeg ikke havde et Stykke ti Øres Blyant i Lommen! Hvad om jeg gik ned i Pilestrædet igen og fik min Blyant tilbageleveret? Der vilde endda blive Tid til at få et godt Stykke færdigt, inden de spadserende begyndte at fylde Parken. Der var også så meget, som afhang af denne Afhandling om den filosofiske Erkendelse, måske flere Menneskers Lykke, ingen kunde vide det. Jeg sagde til mig selv, at den kanske vilde blive til stor Hjælp for mange unge Mennesker. Ret betænkt vilde jeg ikke forgribe mig på Kant; jeg kunde jo undgå det, jeg behøved blot at gøre en ganske umærkelig Bøjning, når jeg kom til Spørgsmålet Tid og Rum; men Renan vilde jeg ikke svare for, gamle Sognepræst Renan . . . . Under alle Omstændigheder galdt det at gøre en Artikel på så og så mange Spalter; den ubetalte Husleje, Værtindens lange Blik om Morgenen, når jeg traf hende i Trapperne, pinte mig hele Dagen og dukked frem igen endog i mine glade Stunder, når jeg ellers ikke havde en mørk Tanke. Dette måtte jeg have en Ende på. Jeg gik hurtigt ud af Parken, forat hente min Blyant hos Pantelåneren.

Da jeg kom ned i Slotsbakken, indhented jeg to Damer, som jeg gik forbi. Idet jeg passered dem, strejfed jeg den enes Ærme, jeg så op, hun havde et fyldigt, lidt blegt Ansigt. Med ét blusser hun og blir forunderlig skøn, jeg ved ikke hvorfor, måske af et Ord, hun hører af en forbigående, måske blot af en stille Tanke hos hende selv. Eller skulde det være fordi jeg berørte hendes Arm? Det høje Bryst bølger heftigt nogle Gange, og hun klemmer Hånden hårdt om Parasolskaftet. Hvad gik der af hende?

Jeg standsed og lod hende komme foran mig igen, jeg kunde ikke i Øjeblikket gå videre, det hele forekom mig så besynderligt. Jeg var i et pirreligt Lune, ærgerlig på mig selv for Hændelsen med Blyanten og i høj Grad ophidset af al den Mad, jeg havde nydt på tom Mave. Med en Gang tager min Tanke ved et lunefuldt Indfald en mærkelig Retning, jeg føler mig greben af en sælsom Lyst til at gøre denne Dame bange, følge efter hende og fortrædige hende på en eller anden Måde. Jeg indhenter hende atter og går hende forbi, vender mig pludselig om og møder hende Ansigt til Ansigt, forat iagttage hende. Jeg står og ser hende ind i Øjnené og hitter på Stedet et Navn, som jeg aldrig havde hørt, et

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