Welcome to "This Much I Know: Learning Out Loud

 “It was in those days I began to go hungry.” 

— Knut Hamsun

There are two things you should know about me. 

I’m an introvert when it comes to politics (and, let’s be honest, most other things too), and I absolutely love books.

I bring these two parts of myself up because I recently finished reading a novel that lives in a complicated space— not because of the story itself, but because of who wrote it. The book is Hunger by Knut Hamsun. It’s not politically charged in the content, but it’s undeniably shadowed by the author’s later sympathy for Nazi Germany during the Holocaust. Still, I can’t stop thinking about it. 

I am usually drawn to psychological thrillers and emotionally driven literary fiction, but every now and then, I like to challenge myself to pick up something outside of my comfort zone. That’s how Hunger landed in my hands. I first overheard the title while browsing at Manchester by the Book, a used bookstore near my son’s college in Beverly, Massachusetts. The owner was talking about Hamsun with a regular customer, and the name stuck with me.  

Weeks later, in New Orleans, I sought it out at Beckham’s BookShop. The staff there are kind and wonderfully bookish. They directed me to Hamsun’s section, and I ended up buying a copy of Hunger, a first edition in good condition for $35, along with a biography of the author. (Side note: a coworker later found it online priced from $99 to $470. I guess I scored!) 

This wasn’t a quick read for me. It took about a week and a half, but I was completely absorbed. Hamsun doesn’t just tell a story, he drops you straight into the fragile, unraveling mind of the narrator. You feel the physical and emotional hunger. You feel the shame, the hope, the delusion, the destruction. I didn’t truly understand self-destruction until I read this book. 

While I was reading it, my husband would come home from working in the French Quarter, sharing stories of what he saw during his bike ride to work—stories of the homeless, the mentally unstable, the worn-down. It created this surreal overlap between the novel and real life. The character in Hunger, unnamed, likely on purpose, could have walked out of those pages into the streets of any modern city. 

 

The novel is set in Norway, in the late 1800’s—a place I’ve never been, but could clearly envision thanks to Hamsun’s vivid, often brutal descriptions. The narrator’s anonymity seems intentional, a way to heighten his alienation and mental spiral. He is disconnected from everything: work, people, even food. And that disconnect is what makes the novel feel so psychologically raw and real. 

It definitely made me think. Can I enjoy the book without thinking about who wrote it? I was able to, at least for this one, but I admit, now that I’ve started his biography, I may not feel the same. And honestly, that’s okay. What I hope for myself and others, is that a political view doesn’t always overshadow a person’s entire character or creativity. It’s a hard balance to strike. 

Reading Hunger was a powerful experience. It’s unfiltered, unsettling, and unlike anything I’ve read before. Hamsun may have been deeply flawed, but his literary talent is undeniable. The novel made me think deeply about mental illness, instability, and how thin the line can be between genius and despair. Most of all, it reminded me that reading isn’t just entertainment—  

Reading is a discovery. 

Reading is empathy. 

Reading is a journey worth taking.