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Almost from page one of this Nobel Prize-winning novel, first published in 1890, I had to remind myself that I'm (1) sane, (2) have always been financially responsible, and (3) am not homeless. This story of a destitute writer is my worst writer's nightmare, and probably the worst nightmare of many people who work in the arts. I've known so many unsuccessful, desperate, bitter artiste-victims and Hamsun's depiction of the first-person protagonist is flawless. He vacillates from arrogance and grandiosity to self-loathing and worthlessness. The portrayal of hunger—how it erodes the mind so we quickly slide into a paranoiac or euphoric fog of fantasy—made reading this agony. But also it gave me a sense of how universal this (ego) hunger is.

Sometimes I imagine myself as less than a speck on a huge blue rock spinning in space. It puts things into truer perspective for me. But the fact that in 1890 Knut Hamsun wrote this book that is so vivid that I found myself dizzy, ravenous, and slightly disoriented while reading it in 2017 . . . I don't even know how to express how that rattles me. Nothing has changed. But a man long dead is still affecting those who exist: I and others who recognize ourselves in this horrific huge, little novel.