Knut Hamsun: Pan

[titania7]

Pan, From the Papers of Lieutenant Thomas Glahn by Knut Hamsun
translated by Sverre Lyngstand
My rating: *****


When speaking of the writing of Pan in a letter from Paris, dated October 1893, Knut Hamsun said, "My new book will be beautiful; it takes place in Nordland, a quiet and red love story. There will be no polemics in it, just people under different skies." Hamsun did indeed succeed in creating a novel of great beauty, an almost mystical fable that can be understood
on many different levels. First, it is a story of breathtaking simplicity. The words are like strands of tiny seed pearls, threaded together with the deft hands of a master jewelry maker. The protagonist, Glahn, is a figure of immense complexity. On the one hand, he demonstrates a level of empathy with nature and sensitivity towards the world around him that is absolutely remarkable. He writes at one point:

"....I'm filled with a mysterious gratitude; everything befriends me, intermingles with me, I love all things. I pick up a dry twig, hold it in my hand and look at it as I sit there having my own thoughts. The twig is nearly rotten, its poor bark affects me, pity stirring my heart. And when I get up to go, I do not throw the twig away but lay it down and stand there feeling sorry for it."

Hamsun describes the character of Glahn in a letter as being "...a bundle of changing emotions, soul, rising and sinking moods." And indeed this is precisely what Glahn is. He may have compassion for the universe that surrounds him, but, on the other hand, he shows little genuine affection for Eva, the young woman whom he ends up in an affair with. She is, for him, a mere outlet for his sexual desire. His heart belongs to Edvarda, whom he is drawn to when he first sets eyes upon her. He regards her with both ambivalence and adoration, making much of her youth and her temperamental disposition. He surveys her with an appraising, if critical eye:

"...a child, a schoolgirl. I looked at her--she was tall but with no figure, around fifteen or sixteen, with long dusky hands without gloves."

At the same time, he is well aware of their mutual attraction to one another.

"Edvarda looked at me, and I looked at her. In that moment I felt something touch my heart, like a fleeting affectionate greeting."

Indeed, the affectionate side of Glahn's nature vacillates. On one occasion, he speaks to Eva of Edvarda's "devilish forehead" and "dirty hands." And, when he calls Edvarda's name in the middle of the night, he tells Eva that it was her name he was calling instead. Later, when Eva dies in an unexpected accident, he mourns her passing with apparent sincerity.

"Eva is dead. Do you remember her little girlish head with hair like a nun's? She came so quietly, put down her load and smiled. And did you see how that smile sparkled with life?"

At times, he seems more fond of Eva than he does of Edvarda. In one of his encounters with Edvarda, he almost taunts her, and, when she offers herself to him, he is not responsive. Nonetheless, it is an erotically charged scene:

"She (Edvarda) comes straight up to me, says a few words and falls on my neck--she clasps her arms around my neck and kisses me on the lips again and again. She says something each time, but I can't hear what it is. I couldn't understand the whole thing, my heart had stopped, I just noticed the burning look in her eyes. When she let go of me, her little bosom rose and fell. There she stood, lingering, with her dusky face and neck, tall and slim, with flashing eyes, completely reckless....For the second time I was thrilled by her dark eyebrows, which rose in a high curve above her forehead."

Most of the time, with the exception of a novel such as Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita, in which the large cat, Behemoth, plays a key role, the important characters in a novel are not animals, but people. However, Glahn's dog, Aesop, is of some significance in this book. He is a beloved companion of Glahn, yet, strangely, Glahn decides to shoot him rather than give him to Edvarda while he's still alive. Before killing the dog, he writes:

"Why did she (Edvarda) ask me to bring the dog to her myself? ....And how would she treat Aesop? Aesop, Aesop, she will torture you! For my sake, she will whip you, pet you too perhaps, but certainly whip you in and out of season and completely ruin you."

The character of Edvarda is somewhat shadowy, almost like a figure seen through a slightly opaque veil. She seems unreal, and the motives behind most of her actions are inexplicable. For Edvarda and Glahn, love often seems to become a battle between the sexes. They are drawn to one another, but never completely connect. The reader almost gets the feeling that Glahn's feelings for Edvarda are more of an obsession than a true love, as such. Like Heathcliff in Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, Glahn expresses his passion for Edvarda in a way that is both fervent and hateful. He is able to give in to his fixation more freely, knowing that a partnership between the two of them would be impossible. As he confides to Eva:

"I love all things....I love a dream of love I once had, I love you, and I love this patch of earth."

"And which do you love best?" Eva asks.

"The dream," he answers.

Indeed, Glahn seems to live a bit within a dream. Were it not for a short epilogue at the end of the novel, an epilogue that has baffled and bewildered critics and readers alike, this piece of fiction would probably be viewed as a "lyrical novel." Indeed, writer Isaac Bashevis Singer calls the book "poetry set in prose." With passages such as this, one can quickly see why:

"Indian summer. Indian summer--The paths wound like ribbons, through the yellowing woods, a new star appeared every day,
the moon looked dim as a shadow, a shadow of gold dipped in silver."

I was reminded, in many ways, of Ibsen's lengthy, allegorical play, Peer Gynt, while reading Pan. There is a certain brand of magic that both works possess. But Hamsun spoke deprecatingly of Ibsen, though I have no doubt he was heavily influenced by his dramas, most particularly the ingenious Peer Gynt. Pan is the more sensual story of the two, and the style of the writing is certainly more simplistic. Still, I was surprised to find that Hamsun wasn't a fan of Ibsen's, given the similarity between these two works. If you read one, you must read the other.

There is something in the way Hamsun writes that compels his reader onward, a spellbinding affect that cannot be duplicated. Pan could be read many times, and still retain all its seductive charm. However, before diving into the book yet again, I'm going to take a look at some of Hamsun's other novels. I'm pleased to say that I've definitely discovered another favorite author.

If others here have read this book, don't hesitate to share your thoughts.

~Titania


"...often on a rainy day some little joy will take possession
of you and make you steal away with your happiness."
~Pan, Knut Hamsun

 

[titania7]

Although I made no mention of it in the preceding review, it's interesting to note that both Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860) and Eduard von Hartmann are believed to have heavily influenced Hamsun in the composition of Pan. The theme of the extreme suffering that accompanies love, a key element of Pan's story, was heavily explored by Schopenhauer, who believed that passionate love is "the source of little pleasure and much suffering." Schopenhauer's philosophical disciple, Hartmann,
developed the "philosophy of the unconscious," speaking of love as "a demon who ever and again demands his victim."

Hamsun published an article on the subject of the potent influence of the unconscious on human behavior, thought, and creativity in 1890. It was entitled "Fra det ubevidste Sjaeleliv" (or "The Life of the Mind").

But in spite of all the experts who have attempted to dissect Pan via elaborate theories espoused by such great minds as Freud and Jung, the novel remains an enigma.

~Titania

 

[liehtzu]

Strangely enough, I just read this, too. My thoughts are somewhat different from yours. While the book was lyrical and beautiful, I thought Hamsun intended Glahn's nature raptures to sound forced, too ecstatic, too in love with the world, almost as if he was trying to convince himself that he would find peace for his inner turmoil through nature-worship. To me the character was a psychotic. The rest of the novel bears that out as far as I'm concerned; Glahn isn't the good and gentle soul he wants everyone to believe he is, but a profoundly disturbed fellow with a destructive bent and his little flares of rage (throwing the shoe, causing the rockfall, intentionally shooting himself in the foot), that he really wants to consume or annihilate Edvarda, and that, instead of being someone he really loves, she's simply his chosen fixation.

Both Glahn and Nagel, the main character of Mysteries, are strange, fragile fellows with a few bats in the belfry who arrive in small northern Norweigan towns and proceed to slowly poison the atmosphere. In neither case do we get much of a background of the main character (especially in Nagel's case it's almost as if he appeared out of a cloud of smoke). Glahn writes on the very first pages that the entire story is a trivial little episode, that it barely means a thing to him, but it's apparent that that's not the case at all. One doesn't blast a hole in one's foot over trivialties. Again and again episodes contradict his commentary, and I think that's what really lends the book its beauty and real mystery.

As for that finale, it further complicates things, doesn't it? But it casts more light on Glahn's self-destructiveness, shows that he was quite likely a rather unsavory character... it stands as a mystery added to the mystery.

I'd also be interested in seeing the ways in which your translation (Lyngstad) differs from mine (the earlier McFarlane translation). I found the Lyngstad Mysteries stiff, hardly the kind of book that would cause Henry Miller to gush, "Mysteries is closer to me than any other book I have read." Here's the McFarlane translation of one of the passages you quoted:

I feel a strange sense of gratitude, everything reaches out towards me, blends with me, I love all things. I take up a dry twig and hold it in my hand as I sit there and think my own thoughts; the twig is nearly rotten, its meager bark distresses me, and pity steals through my heart. And when I get up to go, I do not fling away the twig but lay it down and stand and gaze fondly at it; finally, with moist eyes, I give it one last look before I forsake it.

Some real differences there. Did McFarlane add or Lyngstad subtract? The McFarland sounds better to mine (tin) ear, but did Hamsun's Glahn have moist eyes when he looked down at that desolate twig? Ah, the vagaries of translation...

 

[titania7]

Strangely enough, I just read this, too. My thoughts are somewhat different from yours. While the book was lyrical and beautiful, I thought Hamsun intended Glahn's nature raptures to sound forced, too ecstatic, too in love with the world, almost as if he was trying to convince himself that he would find peace for his inner turmoil through nature-worship.

I, too, felt that Glahn's rapturous attitude regarding nature was overly dramatic. One cannot help but question the level of his sincerity when his heart is "stirred" by looking at a broken twig. It's particularly unbelievable that he would be capable of such compassion given the behavior he demonstrates towards his dog, Eva, and Edvarda.

To me the character was a psychotic. The rest of the novel bears that out as far as I'm concerned; Glahn isn't the good and gentle soul he wants everyone to believe he is, but a profoundly disturbed fellow with a destructive bent and his little flares of rage (throwing the shoe, causing the rockfall, intentionally shooting himself in the foot), that he really wants to consume or annihilate Edvarda, and that, instead of being someone he really loves, she's simply his chosen fixation.

Liehtzu, I saw Glahn as a psychopath, also. I'm simply wary of labeling characters in such strong terms when I would much prefer the readers of this book to make judgements of that nature for themselves. However, if you read between the lines of what I said in my review, you'll see (I think) that I do not esteem Glahn's character very highly. He is indeed destructive, and, in my opinion, soulless.

Both Glahn and Nagel, the main character of Mysteries, are strange, fragile fellows with a few bats in the belfry who arrive in small northern Norweigan towns and proceed to slowly poison the atmosphere.

Not having read Mysteries, I'm unqualified to make any comments about it. I'm certainly going to add it to my TBR list, however. And I agree about Glahn poisoning the atmosphere. Indeed, he seems to add misery to the lives of everyone around him.

Glahn writes on the very first pages that the entire story is a trivial little episode, that it barely means a thing to him, but it's apparent that that's not the case at all.

Of course. But psychopaths are capable of saying anything. They are very devious creatures. Often, I think one can learn to view what they say as being the opposite of what they really think and mean.

Again and again episodes contradict his commentary, and I think that's what really lends the book its beauty and real mystery.

Psychopaths can sometimes be a mass of contradictions. Having made a study of criminal behavior, I'm rather familiar with the tricks and tactics they oft-times use. And you're right, liehtzu--the complex and cunning character of Glahn does add an aura of mystery to the book.

As for that finale, it further complicates things, doesn't it? But it casts more light on Glahn's self-destructiveness, shows that he was quite likely a rather unsavory character... it stands as a mystery added to the mystery.

There's no doubt that the finale makes the entire book infinitely more enigmatic. Like so many psychopaths, Glahn ends up destroying not only other people's lives, but also his own.

I'd also be interested in seeing the ways in which your translation (Lyngstad) differs from mine (the earlier McFarlane translation). I found the Lyngstad Mysteries stiff, hardly the kind of book that would cause Henry Miller to gush, "Mysteries is closer to me than any other book I have read." Here's the McFarlane translation of one of the passages you quoted:

I feel a strange sense of gratitude, everything reaches out towards me, blends with me, I love all things. I take up a dry twig and hold it in my hand as I sit there and think my own thoughts; the twig is nearly rotten, its meager bark distresses me, and pity steals through my heart. And when I get up to go, I do not fling away the twig but lay it down and stand and gaze fondly at it; finally, with moist eyes, I give it one last look before I forsake it.

Some real differences there. Did McFarlane add or Lyngstad subtract? The McFarland sounds better to mine (tin) ear, but did Hamsun's Glahn have moist eyes when he looked down at that desolate twig? Ah, the vagaries of translation...

Personally, I prefer the Lyngstad translation. It strikes me as more lyrical. I do plan to re-read Pan, however; thus, I will look forward to trying the McFarlane translation next time.

Thanks so much for your comments, Liehtzu. It's intriguing to hear your thoughts on this book. Basically, though, in spite of anything I said in my review that would lead you to think otherwise, I think you and I have the same vantage point in regard to this novel.

Best,
Titania

 

[titania7]

I found the Lyngstad Mysteries stiff, hardly the kind of book that would cause Henry Miller to gush, "Mysteries is closer to me than any other book I have read."

Liehtzu,
I have been prompted, by what you have to say about Mysteries, in addiiton to the Henry Miller quote, to order a copy from the library.
The only translation they have is by Gerry Bothmer.

Best,
Titania

"Remember, some give little and it's a lot for them,
others give all and it costs them no great effort."
~Pan, Knut Hamsun

 

[kpjayan]

Titania,

I can join with my recommendations too, though Mysteries is the only book I 've read of Knut Hamsun (so far). It is very good.

 

[titania7]

Titania,
I can join with my recommendations too, though Mysteries is the only book I 've read of Knut Hamsun (so far). It is very good.

Jayan,
I appreciate your backing up Liehtzu's recommendation. I'm completely convinced that I must read Mysteries as soon as I can. As I said, I've already gotten on the library's waiting list.

Hopefully, my review of Pan will prompt you to read more of Hamsun's work, Jayan. Personally, I intend to read as many of Hamsun's works as I can find English translations of!

~Titania

 

[Eric]

Liehtzu uses the term "psychotic", Titania uses "psychopath". That is not how we greehorn students of Scandinavian Studies saw the book in maybe early 1972 when we first read it. We were swept along by the sheer romanticism of the story. Glahn was certainly odd, but to the minds of 18-19-year-olds this was a man in love, but one who couldn't make up his mind whether he liked women. As the English translator, James McFarlane says in the afterword: "the subjective style was startlingly new at the time".

You have to remember that the book first appeared in 1894. In an edition of 2,000 copies, plus a further 500 near Christmas. These were the days of Symbolism, fin-de-si?cle, and so on. Feeling, a reaction to Positivism and Naturalism. It was quickly translated into German, as were several other Hamsun novels. "Hunger" was translated into English in 1899, but, as Robert Ferguson says in his book "it sank without trace". Other novels were translated into French and Russian. Hamsun was "in".

"Pan" was evidently inspired by both Strindberg and Rousseau. But Hamsun soon quarrelled with Strindberg once he met him. The two huge egos were bound to clash, sooner or later.

I think there is a danger in seeing things like hunting, latent misogyny and Hamsun himself in the light of the later Nazi sympathiser he became.

Translator James McFarlane originally taught German, played football (soccer) for Sunderland during World War II, and ended up as Professor of Scandinavian Studies at the University of East Anglia in the early 1960s, although he was on sabbatical when we read "Pan" there, a decade later. See:

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qn4158/is_/ai_n14248688

"Pan" first came out in the United States in McFarlane's translation in 1956, and was then re-published by The Artemis Press in England a decade or so later.

 

[titania7]

Eric,
Many thanks for the link to the McFarlane obituary article. One can only speculate as to the completely different path McFarlane's career would've taken had he ended up translating Musil, as was his original intention.

I appreciate your sharing your thoughts on Pan. It's wonderful to hear another Hamsun fan's perspective on this compelling novel. I think perhaps my labelling Glahn a "psychopath" has made it seem doubtful that I fully absorbed the romantic nature of the book. Indeed, such is not the case. Many people have the mistaken notion that a "psychopath" is a diabolical person who is only capable of devious, harmful behavior. This is an assumption. For the record, I have known at least three or four psychopaths over the course of my life, and at least two of them were quite charming, if not captivating. In no way did I mean to infer that Glahn isn't a protagonist that one can both relate to and empathize with. Indeed, he does often seem like a man in love. But cannot a psychopath be in love? They are, after all, human beings. And, for the most part, I would say that they're capable of feeling all the emotions and passions that all the rest of us do, even if at a more superficial level. One psychopath I knew was actually so beguiling that, when I first met her (at the age of nine) I was certain she was an angel! She was also
a fascinating person, just the sort of woman who would become an author's muse. She did end bring two husbands a great deal of misery, however.

So....my defining Glahn as "psychopath" was not necessarily negative. Granted, I wouldn't want to be involved with a psychopath personally. At the same time, these beings do live among us--and they are the key characters in more novels than one can even begin to count. Technically, a primary feature of a psychopath is a clear vision of reality except for social or moral obligations. In my opinion, Glahn shooting his dog is a clear-cut example of psychopathic behavior. He had a moral/social obligation to take care of his Aesop. "Normal" people--that is, people with normal feelings--wouldn't kill a pet simply because they didn't want to give it to another person. As for Glahn's behavior towards Eva and Edvarda, I felt he demonstrated a strange, twisted cruelty, particularly towards Edvarda. I have known one or two men of Glahn's type. I'm not sure I would call them psychopaths, per se, but they didn't seem to have much of a conscience. Perhaps it would be better to say they were "soulless" rather than "psychopathic." And, ultimately, maybe this is what is missing in Glahn--a soul.

It isn't clear which translation you read of Pan, Eric. Was it McFarlane's?

~Titania

 

[titania7]

Eric,
You make an apt point about Hamsun being inspired by Strindberg in his writing of Pan. It's interesting to note that, during the winter of 1887-1888, Hamsun gave a series of lectures centered around such literary luminaries as Flaubert, Zola, Ibsen, and Strindberg. I know Hamsun denounced Ibsen and Tolstoy, but there can be little doubt that the former's Peer Gynt heavily influenced Pan. Peer Gynt was written in 1867, some 27 years before Hamsun's Pan. Although there are many differences in these two works, there is something about the ambience of them that is eerily similar. It would be difficult to explain to anyone who hadn't read them both. After reading the article you linked to on McFarlane, I'm adding his translation of Peer Gynt to my wish list at amazon. The translation I read of this play was by Peter Watts. And, although I had no complaints whatsoever, I'm quite certain McFarlane's translation would be even better.

As for Hamsun being a Nazi sympathizer, I couldn't care less. I don't mean to imply that his behavior was excusable--it wasn't. However, the private lives of the authors I read and whether or not I disagree with the personal and political choices they happen to make has no bearing on what I think of their writing.

~Titania

"It's the choice that distinguishes wise men from fools."
~Peer Gynt, Henrik Ibsen

 

[Eric]

Ibsen, in this context is interesting. He started out with the strange play "Peer Gynt", that Titania mentions, also "Brand". He then moved on to the more realist plays for which he is famous, such as "A Doll's House", "Hedda Gabler", "The Master Builder", etc. I feel he only returned to his more mystical self when he wrote, for instance, "When We Dead Awaken".

Strindberg also evolved, writing all his social plays, such as "Miss Julie" and "The Father". But where, for me personally, he really gets interesting is towards the end of his life, with "To Damascus", "A Dream Play" and several more of these more mystical plays.

It is the symbolist and mystic dimension of these two playwrights that fascinates. That is why early Hamsun is also interesting.