AL Kennedy (with Maud), Tanenhaus, (Complete Review taking piss of same), Andrei Codrescu (with Birnbaum), The Art of Not Writing Books, Robert Ferrigno (no relation to Lou) at Sarah’s, Stephen King and “artistic merit,” China Mieville and economics, Wold Newton, M. Night rips off M. Peterson Haddix, new Pavarotti tell-all, John Strelecky claims world’s fastest book sales, bidding war for Obama book, classic Indian lit into new media, A. Wilson wins Trib lifetime achievement, famed Hardy tryst tower to be moved, leading lit agency enters picture biz, Scot lot fund denies funds to preserve MS (x many), street lit biatch, Gloria Emerson passed away, yet another comics deserve more respect piece, Alex Beam checks out DFW Gourmet piece.

Alas, a bit of research shows that Herr Hamsun did indeed suffer from a case of Nazism. Worse, if that’s possible, he said and did things that rocket him way past “casual flirtation”–like meeting with Joseph Goebbels and then sending Goebbels his Nobel Prize medal as a gift:

Hamsun’s loyalty to the National Socialist New Order in Europe was well appreciated in Berlin, and in May 1943 Hamsun and his wife were invited to visit Joseph Goebbels, a devoted fan of the writer. Both men were deeply moved by the meeting, and Hamsun was so affected that he sent Goebbels the medal which he had received for winning the Nobel Prize for idealistic literature in 1920, writing that he knew of no statesman who had so idealistically written and preached the cause of Europe. Goebbels in return considered the meeting to have been one of the most precious encounters of his life and wrote touchingly in his diary: “May fate permit the great poet to live to see us win victory! If anybody deserved it because of a high-minded espousal of our cause even under the most difficult circumstances, it is he.” The following month Hamsun spoke at a conference in Vienna organized to protest against the destruction of European cultural treasures by the sadistic Allied terror-bombing raids. He praised Hitler as a crusader and a reformer who would create a new age and a new life. Then, three days later, on June 26, 1943, his loyalty was rewarded with a personal and highly emotional meeting with Hitler at the Berghof. As he left, the 84 year-old Hamsun told an adjutant to pass on one last message to his Leader: “Tell Adolf Hitler: we believe in you.”

Fucking hell. This doesn’t quite answer the question of whether I should read Hamsun or not, but to say it dampens my enthusiasm (in advance) would be an understatement.

I’ve found that The Writer’s Almanac is a lot easier to enjoy when you separate the content from Garrison Keillor’s soporific mumble. From today’s entry:

It’s the birthday of novelist Knut Hamsun, born Knut Pedersen in Lom, Norway (1859). Author of Hunger (1890) and The Growth of the Soil (1917), he won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1920. He said, “Language must resound with all the harmonies of music. The writer must always, at all times, find the tremulous word which captures the thing and is able to draw a sob from my soul by its very rightness. A word can be transformed into a color, light, a smell. It is the writer’s task to use it in such a way that it serves, never fails, can never be ignored.”

Any Hamsun fans out there? I confess to being completely ignorant of his work, so I’m wondering if I should be running to my local bookseller or not. (I assume that’s a “yes,” but pls. elaborate for my personal edification.)

Like most Nobel Laureates, his Banquet Speech is worth a look, if you please. Extract:

It is as well perhaps that this is not the first time I have been swept off my feet. In the days of my blessed youth there were such occasions; in what young person’s life do they not occur? No, the only young people to whom this feeling is strange are those young conservatives who were born old, who do not know the meaning of being carried away. No worse fate can befall a young man or woman than becoming prematurely entrenched in prudence and negation. Heaven knows that there are plenty of opportunities in later life, too, for being carried away. What of it? We remain what we are and, no doubt, it is all very good for us!

Speak, dear superfriends! Speak! Without your contras here, what is this place but a stunning white effulgence of nothingness? No troops, no slimy colonel speaking on television. Save dirge here, nada nary crazed cornucopia of outbursts (nugget-size, ears to follow) without too much concentration seeing as how the pistol will be squarely fired in twenty mins (how you like that, square peg into circle slot?). 1/3 hour resembling crazed recipe in the cookbook of life. Pomo post, gum (dream? riverworld?) going out of style, or back in if you’re George, Art, or Lee? If some brilliant deity combined Strasberg and Bruce, you’d have kickass martial arts theatre, no?

See, there’s the rub. Crazed associations, ticking clock, twenty minutes of fun (far from Sweet’s 100%, I’m sure), bags and balloons replacing cogent discourse. Bask in the incoherence! Peabs back too. See, sexy mofos all around. One ponders the porn king calling lights! camera! action! only to be greeted with detumescence. How many takes is that, daddy-o? And where’s your SoCal incest hook for the Bush-voting heartland? Crude, unfounded, but proving too true, perhaps thrice. See, we be better than smut!

What’s it all about? That bulge verging upon that sibilant letter, dead enderby. Vidi well, my friends. We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when.

We have only an inkling of what’s going down in the literary world. We thus return this blog to the control of the majestic Superfriends. It should be noted that Bondgirl has something pretty cool whipped up.

One thing we will say is that Before Sunset has one of the greatest cinematic endings we’ve seen in a year (ending entails rug cleared from beneath audience’s feet, followed by moans from audience when “Directed by Richard Linklater” credit is seemingly prematurely displayed, followed shortly after by wild applause over how delightfully mischevious Linklater has been — ergo, the man kicketh ass).