![]() Every time I finished a page, that page would fall off the spine. Then the same thing happened with the third page, and the fourth, and the fifth, and so on. Strange, I thought or maybe even whispered in the middle of an empty plaza, and I continued reading with two pieces of paper in my hand. But when I finished both sides of the second page, that page also fell off. ![]() Was it me? Did I pull on it too harshly? I decided to keep reading. I was the only person there.Īfter sitting on the bench and ignoring the first introduction by the translator Robert Bly, and then a second one by Isaac Bashevis Singer - one must always jump over introductions or forewords of any kind - I immediately began to read the novel, originally published in Norway in 1890, about an unnamed narrator and struggling writer who is wasting away from hunger.īut as soon as I finished reading both sides of the first page, that page fell off the spine and I was left holding it in my hand, a bit confused. Too perfectly, I thought, as if someone had left it there just for me. Suddenly, I came upon a worn paperback copy of Knut Hamsun's early novel, "Hunger," perfectly placed on a green bench in a plaza. ![]() One of the best books I read this year was also one of the worst.Īs I walked in a small town in the south of France, the early afternoon sun was high and warm and the sky cloudless. ![]()
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