Hunger by Knut Hamsun Read Free Book Online Page A

woman walked by just then, I stepped quickly back to let her pass and used the opportunity to make off.
    What should I do with myself while waiting? I couldn’t go to a café with empty pockets, and I didn’t know of any acquaintance I might look up at this time of day. I headed instinctively uptown, idled away some time going from Stortorvet Square to Grænsen Street, read the number of Aftenposten which had just been tacked up on the bulletin board, made a detour down to Karl Johan Street, then turned around and walked straight up to Our Savior’s Cemetery, where I found myself a quiet spot on the rise near the chapel.
    I sat there in silence, dozing in the damp air, musing, half asleep and feeling cold. Time passed. Could I be absolutely certain that my story was truly inspired, a little artistic masterpiece? God knows it might have some faults here and there. Everything considered, it didn’t even have to get accepted—no, that was it, not even accepted! What if it was quite mediocre or perhaps downright bad; what guarantee did I have that it hadn’t already ended up in the wastepaper basket? . . . My feeling of contentment had been shaken, I jumped up and stormed out of the cemetery.
    Down in Aker Street I glanced into a shop window and saw that it was only a few minutes past twelve. This made me even more desperate, having so confidently hoped it was way past noon; there was no use in looking for the editor until four. The fate of my story filled me with dark forebodings; the more I thought about it, the more absurd it seemed that I could have written something usable so suddenly, half asleep at that, my brain full of fever and dreams. I had deceived myself, of course, and been happy all morning for nothing! Of course! . . . I walked briskly up Ullevaal Road, past St. Hanshaugen, came onto some open land, then into the quaint narrow lanes in the Sagene section, crossed some empty lots and cultivated fields, and finally found myself on a country road the end of which I couldn’t see.
    Here I came to a standstill and decided to turn around. I felt warm from my walk and went back slowly, very depressed. I met two hay wagons, the drivers, both bareheaded and with round carefree faces, lying flat on top of their loads and singing. I thought to myself as I walked along that they would be sure to say something, throw some remark or other my way or play a prank, and when I got close enough one of them called out and asked what I had under my arm.
    â€œA blanket,” I replied.
    â€œWhat time is it?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t know exactly, about three, I think.”
    Then they both laughed and drove past. At that instant I felt the flick of a whip against my ear, and my hat was twitched off. The youngsters couldn’t let me pass without playing a trick on me. I put my hand angrily to my ear, picked up my hat from the edge of the ditch and continued walking. At St. Hanshaugen I met a man who told me it was past four.
    Past four! It was already past four o’clock! I strode off toward town and the newspaper office. Perhaps the editor had been there ages ago and left the office already! I walked and ran by turns, stumbling and knocking against the carriages, left all the other pedestrians behind and kept pace with the horses, fighting like crazy to get there in time. I wriggled through the gate, took the stairs in four bounds and knocked.
    No answer.
    I think, He’s gone! He’s gone! I try the door, it’s open. I knock once more and step in.
    The editor is sitting at his desk, his face turned toward the window, pen in hand poised to write. When he hears my breathless greeting he turns half around, looks at me for a moment, shakes his head and says, “I haven’t had time to read your sketch yet.”
    I feel so glad that at least he hasn’t yet scrapped it that I answer, “Goodness, no, I quite understand. There’s no great hurry. In a couple of