Norwegian Wood

It was hard to believe that this book was written in 1892. Certainly in style it’s ahead of its time. The depiction of the inner life of its characters, the stream of consciousness writing, the strange feelings we get of the troubled Camus-like anti-hero, are the most memorable features of this Norwegian novel.

Although written in the third person, Hansun drops into the mind of Nagel, the rebel without a cause who is the protagonist of this fascinating book.

The book starts with Nagel who| arrives unannounced at a Norwegian coastal town knowing no one, wearing a yellow suit and carrying a fur coat and a violin-less violin case. He takes a room at the local hotel and proceeds to embark upon some very unpredictable acts whose purposes are at odds with conventional society.

He takes pleasure in persuading people to act contravention to their own dispositions. He orders a new coat for the town jester, a cripple who ignorant villagers laugh at, calling him as “the midget”. He insists on buying an old worn-out chair from a poor widow for a price that exceeds her annual income. These people don’t want his money but Nagel wants them to go against their virtue of poverty to satisfy himself.

To Nigel money is no object and he throws it around hosting a “stag party” for the towns local dignitaries.

The dinner party scene was the highlight of the book. The town’s pastor, doctor, deputy and Negal sit around a table discussing world políticas. When thoroughly inebriated the move on to literature. Negal is contemptuous of Tolstoy, and Ibsen, calling them mediocre. He despises Marx, socialists and liberals, claiming the latter are makers of bureaucracies whose height of legislation is the setting up of a committee to improve the footwear of mailmen.

As the book progresses Nagel becomes manic, contradictory and irrational in his thought patterns. He confuses himself as his opposing desires clash. He proclaims his useless passion for the pastor’s blond-haired daughter and proposes to a poor gray-haired widow. When he falls down in his manic dementia the novel veers from the third person narrative to the stream of consciousness of Nagel’s mind.

Mysteries is a very intriguing book. I had to keep reminding myself that it was written in the 19th century. I had to google this writer, Knut Hamsun - I’d chanced upon the novel by accident. I needed to know more. This was when I was halfway through the book. I discovers he had, much later in life, praised Hitler. I almost stopped reading but continued to the end because I felt there must be some obscure reason. How could this be?

I ended up going with the Guardian reviewer in The Nazi novelist you should read -
“I will not defend Hamsun's politics. He betrayed both his country and more importantly humanity in general and deserves every bit of the scorn that's been heaped upon him. Hamsun's writing, however, is another matter. Whether we like the man or not, it seems to me both foolish and pointless to continue ignoring the significance of Hamsun's work - if for no other reason than it's an important part of our literary evolution and denying this can do nothing but cloud our understanding of our ourselves as readers and writers.”

I am both glad and ashamed that I finished this novel. Like the book’s main character, I’m holding two competing thoughts in my head. I can’t unread it. I thought the book was brilliant. ( )

Since Knut Hamsun received the Nobel Prize for Literature, though not for this book, and Henry Miller greatly praised his work, I had been looking forward to reading this book, which I have had for years.

But it was not to my taste. (One comment on Goodreads states that one must be brain-dead not to appreciate it.)

In 1891 a strange young man called Johan Nagel in a flamboyant yellow suit travels for some reason to a coastal Norwegian town.

He’s an extremely voluble man who talks to everyone but keeps contradicting himself. He admits: “I am a phony”.

He falls in love with a beautiful girl called Dagny who is already engaged to another. She declines Nagal, but he persists in his attentions.

Later, he begins to pursue another woman.

Nagal seems to have plenty of money but we’re not told where it comes from. He has an unexplainable propensity to present others with money or gifts.

He doesn’t speak naturally like everybody else: his speech is designed to manipulate others.

Only at the very end does the book get slightly interesting. I kept on with it because it was penned by Knut Hamsun and I wanted to read the whole thing before criticizing it.

Most of the other reviews are exceedingly positive, so I am apparently one of the very few who doesn’t appreciate Hamsun’s genius.

I just don’t see the point of the book, and the character of Nagal seemed unrealistic and unappealing.

When I’ve recovered from reading this book, I may try to tackle Hunger or one of his others. I own The Wanderer, so I may try that one. ( )

I've decided I need a new bookshelf. 'It's not you, it's me'. Perhaps all ex-Catholics need one of them, the one for the books they feel guilty about not finishing.

To begin with I hated this in a 'I hate this but I want to read it' way. That became 'I hate this but by God I'm going to finish it'. And a couple of nights ago, up at 3am that in turn became 'Yeah, nah. Move on'. And sometimes one moves on without the least guilt at all, other times one is tortured by it. Then one adds the inadequacy of looking it up on goodreads and discovering one wasn't clever enough to stick with it. I suppose that's the 'fear of missing out' on literary social media.

And I still do feel a bit like that. Guilt aside, I also feel like I might be missing out on a whopper of an ending.

Grrrrr. Maybe the shelf should be called 'I'm moving on but I can't get you out of my mind.'

I've decided I need a new bookshelf. 'It's not you, it's me'. Perhaps all ex-Catholics need one of them, the one for the books they feel guilty about not finishing.

To begin with I hated this in a 'I hate this but I want to read it' way. That became 'I hate this but by God I'm going to finish it'. And a couple of nights ago, up at 3am that in turn became 'Yeah, nah. Move on'. And sometimes one moves on without the least guilt at all, other times one is tortured by it. Then one adds the inadequacy of looking it up on goodreads and discovering one wasn't clever enough to stick with it. I suppose that's the 'fear of missing out' on literary social media.

And I still do feel a bit like that. Guilt aside, I also feel like I might be missing out on a whopper of an ending.

Grrrrr. Maybe the shelf should be called 'I'm moving on but I can't get you out of my mind.'

I've decided I need a new bookshelf. 'It's not you, it's me'. Perhaps all ex-Catholics need one of them, the one for the books they feel guilty about not finishing.

To begin with I hated this in a 'I hate this but I want to read it' way. That became 'I hate this but by God I'm going to finish it'. And a couple of nights ago, up at 3am that in turn became 'Yeah, nah. Move on'. And sometimes one moves on without the least guilt at all, other times one is tortured by it. Then one adds the inadequacy of looking it up on goodreads and discovering one wasn't clever enough to stick with it. I suppose that's the 'fear of missing out' on literary social media.

And I still do feel a bit like that. Guilt aside, I also feel like I might be missing out on a whopper of an ending.

Grrrrr. Maybe the shelf should be called 'I'm moving on but I can't get you out of my mind.'