The bohemian life of 19th century artists is often romanticized (I'm pointing at you, Henri Murger). In Paris they go to smoky and sweaty cafés to get drunk from buckets of wine, and to discuss philosophical ideas. Or at least to admire greatly the chests of the women at the next table. If they don't grab a girl with them, they go home alone to shiver and put the last chair leg into the stove. In the morning they climb from the bed with ruffled hair, and start painting the next picture with their stomachs growling. They sure are hungry, but suffering just increases creativity, right? So now's the opportunity to grab the brush and ferociously paint life's hardships on the canvas.

This is ok too, it's nice to read these romantic ideas of artists' sufferings, but it was refreshing (if you can say that in this case) to dive into Hamsun's Norwegian version of 19th century life of a - in this case - writer. The stream of consciousness-like writing carries the reader from one day to another, all of which are mingled with each other. The protagonist lives from hand to mouth trying to scrape up a living by writing, but how can you get money when creativity withers down because of starvation? How to extinguish your hunger when you don't have any money to buy food? The rat race continues, until finally the food comes into his way, but instead of satisfying the hunger it's puked out.

The protagonist is anonymous, which makes the story even more powerful. The hunger is almost faceless, because Hamsun doesn't give us that much personal information to work with. The man's life is completely filled with hunger for creation and food. He could be anyone of those vagrants wandering the streets of any city. Sometimes luck kicks in, sometimes he has to rage at passers-by. His principle is to not accept charity and to keep a respectable appearance, which of course turns against him. Society is not the target of his disappointment, but it's the universe that is cruel. Admitting his situation is still hard.

The text itself shows the breakdown of the protagonist's mind with varied tenses, rambling, and jumping from one thing to another. Reading didn't seem to difficult at any point, however, because Hamsun's style flows nicely despite the protagonist's at times meandering imagination. What surprised me most was the atmosphere of the book. It wasn't just constant wallowing in sadness and misery like I thought, but it's sometimes even a bit cheerful. The story's end is like a fresh breath of a new beginning, and you sincerely wish for good luck for the man. Or at least that's how I interpreted it.