 
                        20080701.02

     I was reminded of Hamsun by a carbon copy of a
typewritten review which I found in a box of letters that
Margaret had unearthed in the process of reorganizing our
bedroom closet. The review, styled "Brief ueber Hamsun",
(Letter about Hamsun) was an appreciative appraisal of
Hamsun's work and had been written by a young Jewish
literary critic named Hans Georg Schick with whom my mother
had been in love before she met my father, and whom she
might have married, had Schick not died of tuberculosis.
The style of the review suggests that it might have been
drafted in response to a question from, - or a conversation
with - my mother. I understood immediately that my mother's
often recited interpretation of Hamsun of which I have such
vivid memories, was not her own but was, as it were, a
bequest from her deceased fiance.  Now that I knew the
provenance of her ideas, I reread especially "Pan", to gain
a better understanding of my mother's youth, and also to
find a yardstick by which to try to measure my own writing.

     As I often do, I copied a paragraph from Schick's
review that summarizes the sentiments about Hamsun that I
heard from my mother over and over again.  Then I made an
interlinear translation, and finally, to produce a
reasonably readable English text, I deleted from that
translation the original German lines.  I include all three
versions.

     Schick wrote: "Der Mensch ist sein eigenes Schicksal
und das anderer."  Wie sympathisch, ja geradezu
liebenswuerdig, beilaeufig das einmal gesagt wird,
himmelweit von "Sentenz" und irgendwelcher Wichtigtuerei
entfernt!  Es gibt keine Anklage in diesen Buechern.  Die
Menschen sind wie sie sind, und es waere naerrisch, sie
anders haben zu wollen.  Und wenn die Menschen brutal und
gemein sind, so freut er sich fast, dass sie nicht noch
gemeiner und brutaler sind, aber es ist etwas bitteres in
dieser Freude und in dem Laecheln fast ein Schluchzen:
"Nein, schlimm waren sie nicht."  Was soll man tun, nicht
wahr, es ist halt vieles in der Welt, was schwer
mitanzusehen ist: viel Gutes und viel Schlechtes, eines
draengt das andere, und nur der klagt an der nicht weiss,
dass jeder seine eigene Not zu schleppen hat, die er so
gern einmal vergessen will.

             ================================

Schick wrote:
"Der Mensch ist sein eigenes Schicksal und das anderer."
"A man is his own fate and the fate of others.

Wie sympathisch, ja geradezu liebenswuerdig, beilaeufig
How congenially, how downright graciously, casually

das einmal gesagt wird, himmelweit von "Sentenz"
that statement is made, anything but a sententious maxim;

und irgendwelcher Wichtigtuerei entfernt!
how remote from any pretentiousness.

Es gibt keine Anklage in diesen Buechern.
There is no accusation in these books.

Die Menschen sind wie sie sind,
People are as they are,

und es waere naerrisch,
and it would be foolish

sie anders haben zu wollen.
to want to have them otherwise.

Und wenn die Menschen brutal und gemein sind,
And if people are brutal and mean,

so freut er sich fast,
its almost as if he were pleased,

dass sie nicht noch gemeiner und brutaler sind,
that they are not meaner and more brutal than they are.

aber es ist etwas bitteres in dieser Freude
but there is something bitter in this pleasure

und in dem Laecheln fast ein Schluchzen:
and the smile is almost sobbing.

"Nein, schlimm waren sie nicht."
"No, they were not wicked."

Was soll man tun, nicht wahr,
What should one do, after all,

es ist halt vieles in der Welt,
there is much in the world,

was schwer mitanzusehen ist:
that is difficult to contemplate,

viel Gutes und viel Schlechtes,
much good and much evil,

eines draengt das andere,
one thing follows another,

und nur der klagt an
and only he accuses

der nicht weiss,
who does not understand

dass jeder seine eigene Not zu schleppen hat,
that each one has his own troubles to contend with,

die er so gern einmal vergessen will.
which he wishes he might be able to forget.

                 =========================

     Schick wrote "A man is his own fate and the fate of
others."  How congenially, how downright graciously, how
casually that statement is made, anything but a sententious
maxim, how remote from any pretentiousness.  There is no
accusation in these books.  People are as they are, and it
would be foolish to want to have them otherwise.  And if
people are brutal and mean, its almost as if he were
pleased, that they are not even meaner and more brutal than
they are.  But there is something bitter in this pleasure
and the smile is almost sobbing.  "No, they were not
wicked."  What should one do, after all, there is much in
the world, that is difficult to contemplate, much good and
much evil, one thing follows another, and only he accuses
who does not understand that each one has his own troubles
to contend with, which he wishes he might be able to
forget.

                ===========================

     Clearly, I should do well to read more of Hamsun,
before venturing any comments. My preliminary thought,
relying on the novels "Hunger" and "Pan", is that the
humanity (or inhumanity) which Hamsun describes is his own.
That these novels are autobiographical in the most profound
sense; that these books are an ultimate realization of the
Biblical injunction, Judge not that ye be not judged, that
in asking his readers to forgive his characters, Hamsun is
asking his readers to forgive him; that in forgiving his
characters, Hamsun is forgiving himself. If so, then
Hamsun's literary career may demonstrate a remarkable
symmetry, inasmuch as his last novel "Paa gjengrodde Stier"
(On overgrown paths) which I haven't read is said to be in
part an explanation and apology for his enthusiastic
support of National Socialism. Was Hamsun again forgiving
himself for, among other things, making a present of his
1920 Nobel Literature Prize medal to Joseph Goebbels.

     If Hamsun's gospel was indeed a message of self-
forgiveness, of what concern should that have been to Hans
Georg Schick and his girl friend? Again, it's only a
suspicion: Could Hamsun's novels have been for them an
escape tunnel from the pieties and strictures of 19th
century bourgeois morality? I have often puzzled over the
incongruous disparity between my mother's enthusiastic
endorsement of Hamsun, - she even named one of her dogs
"Aesop" after the canine hero of the novel "Pan" - and her
embarrassment by Heine's or Goethe's or Shakespeare's
explicit erotics.

     As for my own writing, I understand better than ever,
that if, as I suspect, Hamsun's popularity is based on his
securing forgiveness or pardons for the failings of
"Everyman", my characters haven't got a chance.  Elitists
don't win elections.

                     * * * * *
Copyright 2008, Ernst Jochen Meyer
