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).

Now that all the conclusions about the decline in reading have been laid out, it’s time to weigh in well after the worthwhile arguments have been exhausted. I’m talking about the Negro problem. Think of the television public-service ad featuring that African-American basketball player (African-American sports figures reading? Never mind that rapist Mike Tyson reading Voltaire in the joint. We have well-hung stereotypes to maintain.) or the one depicting a prominent member of NAMBLA (Caucasian, and thus better) reading to a group of young boys shortly before a tête-a-tête. How can anyone get excited about reading when there are so many personal prejudices to dwell upon? After all, isn’t there a larger question here about giving life imprisonment to the Cacuasian and keeping Tyson on death row?

Now, in the wake of a well-referenced ALA report that you, my dear pale-skinned readers in the burbs, haven’t heard about — there’s a movement by these bleeding hearts to get more people reading. There was recently a Barack Obama speech that actually suggested some “slander” regarding a black kid with a book being considered white. I don’t understand. Are the Negros getting uppity again? Shouldn’t we be telling our lovable black brothers to keep their positions as lovable comedians (whether cute and cuddly like Wayne Brady or populist and provocative like Dave Chappelle), supporting characters who get killed off first in horror movies or who serve as magical sidekicks for aging, toupeed and pancaked Caucasian leads, WASPified secretaries of state told what to do by a unilateral administration, and well-hung sports stars?

We cannot permit the black man to read. Because that would involve them becoming informed citizens! They may actually transform the American power base!

To me, the best way to think about reading is to consider it the exclusive territory of the white man. Let those who live in gated communities have their golden libraries! Really, it works out better that way. Keep the inner cities equipped with rotting schools and dilapidated libraries. We gave them Pruitt-Igoe and it didn’t work! Why aren’t they grateful?

I should point out that when I was at 17, I read The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I mention this because I want you to know that there was a point in my life when I was “down with the kids.” Anyway, I was frightened of the Negros. I was certain that a race war was going on, because one of those black people actually tried to introduce himself to me. It was one of the scariest moments of my life. But like any good (now ex-)liberal, I tried to see it from the black point of view. But my two best friends, who showed up to the homecoming cance dressed in really spectacular white gowns and hoods, didn’t like what I was reading.

Well, I saw the light. And now here I am in Virginia still trying to understand why my fellow Virginian Thomas Jefferson wrote words against slavery.

Where was I going with this? Ah yes. Words are potent. And we should begin burning books at the inauguration should Uncle George win again. It’s the American thing to do.