Growth of the Soil by Knut Hamsun (chromebook ebook reader txt) 📕
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Growth of the Soil was published in 1917 to universal acclaim. A mid- to late-career work for Hamsun, it was celebrated for its then-revolutionary use of literary techniques like stream of consciousness, and for its unadorned depiction of pastoral life. Its focus on the quotidian lives of everyday people has led scholars to classify it as a novel of Norwegian New Realism.
Isak, a man so strong and so simple that he echoes a primitive, foundational “everyman,” finds an empty plot of land in turn-of-the-century Norway, and builds a small home. He soon attracts a wife, Inger, whose harelip has led her to be ostracized from town life but who is nonetheless a hard and conscientious worker. Together the two earthy beings build a farm and a family, and watch as society and civilization grows and develops around them.
Isak and Inger’s toils sometimes bring them up against the burgeoning modernity around them, but curiously, the novel is not one driven by a traditional conflict-oriented plot. Instead, the steady progression of life on the farm, with its ups and downs, its trials and joys, makes the people and their growth the novel’s main propellant. While the humble, homespun protagonists occasionally come into conflict with the awe-inspiring forces of civilization, more often than not, those forces are portrayed as positive and symbiotic companions to the agrarian lifestyle.
Hamsun was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1920 for Growth of the Soil, one of the rare instances in which the Nobel committee awarded a prize for a specific novel, and not a body of work. It has since come to be regarded as a classic of modernist, and Norwegian, literature.
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- Author: Knut Hamsun
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Isak drives on till he comes to a tarn, a bit of a pool on the moor, and there he pulls up. A pool on the moors, black, deep down, and the little surface of the water perfectly still; Isak knew what that was good for; he had hardly used any other mirror in his life than such a bit of water on the moors. Look how nice and neat he is today, with a red shirt; he takes out a pair of scissors now, and trims his beard. Vain barge of a man; is he going to make himself handsome all at once, and cut away five years’ growth of iron beard? He cuts and cuts away, looking at himself in his glass. He might have done all this at home, of course, but was shy of doing it before Oline; it was quite enough to stand there right in front of her nose and put on a red shirt. He cuts and cuts away, a certain amount of beard falls into his patent mirror. The horse grows impatient at last and is moving on; Isak is fain to be content with himself as he is, and gets up again. And indeed he feels somehow younger already—devil knows what it could be, but somehow slighter of build. Isak drives down to the village.
Next day the mail boat comes in. Isak climbs up on a rock by the storekeeper’s wharf, looking out, but still no Inger to be seen. Passengers there were, grown-up folk and children with them—Herregud!—but no Inger. He had kept in the background, sitting on his rock, but there was no need to stay behind any longer; he gets down and goes to the steamer. Barrels and cases trundling ashore, people and mailbags, but still Isak lacked what he had come for. There was something there—a woman with a little girl, up at the entrance to the landing-stage already; but the woman was prettier to look at than Inger—though Inger was good enough. What—why—but it was Inger! “H’m,” said Isak, and trundled up to meet them. Greetings: “Goddag,” said Inger, and held out her hand; a little cold, a little pale after the voyage, and being ill on the way. Isak, he just stood there; at last he said:
“H’m. ’Tis a fine day and all.”
“I saw you down there all along,” said Inger. “But I didn’t want to come crowding ashore with the rest. So you’re down in the village today?”
“Ay, yes. H’m.”
“And all’s well at home, everything all right?”
“Ay, thank you kindly.”
“This is Leopoldine; she’s stood the voyage much better than I did. This is your papa, Leopoldine; come and shake hands nicely.”
“H’m,” said Isak, feeling very strange—ay, he was like a stranger with them all at once.
Said Inger: “If you find a sewing-machine down by the boat, it’ll be mine. And there’s a chest as well.”
Off goes Isak, goes off more than willingly, after the chest; the men on board showed him which it was. The sewing-machine was another matter; Inger had to go down and find that herself. It was a handsome box, of curious shape, with a round cover over, and a handle to carry it by—a sewing-machine in these parts! Isak hoisted the chest and the sewing-machine on to his shoulders, and turned to his wife and child:
“I’ll have these up in no time, and come back for her after.”
“Come back for who?” asked Inger, with a smile. “Did you think she couldn’t walk by herself, a big girl like that?”
They walked up to where Isak had left the horse and cart.
“New horse, you’ve got?” said Inger. “And what’s that you’ve got—a cart with a seat in?”
“ ’Tis but natural,” said Isak. “What I was going to say: Wouldn’t you care for a little bit of something to eat? I’ve brought things all ready.”
“Wait till we get a bit on the way,” said she. “Leopoldine, can you sit up by yourself?”
But her father won’t have it; she might fall down under the wheels. “You sit up with her and drive yourself.”
So they drove off, Isak walking behind.
He looked at the two in the cart as he walked. There was Inger, all strangely dressed and strange and fine to look at, with no harelip now, but only a tiny scar on the upper lip. No hissing when she talked; she spoke all clearly, and that was the wonder of it all. A grey-and-red woollen wrap with a fringe looked grand on her dark hair. She turned round in her seat on the cart, and called to him:
“It’s a pity you didn’t bring a skin rug with you; it’ll be cold, I doubt, for the child towards night.”
“She can have my jacket,” said Isak. “And when we get up in the woods, I’ve left a rug there on the way.”
“Oh, have you a rug up in the woods?”
“Ay. I wouldn’t bring it down all the way, for if you didn’t come today.”
“H’m. What was it you said before—the boys are well and all?”
“Ay, thank you kindly.”
“They’ll be big lads now, I doubt?”
“Ay, that’s true. They’ve just been planting potatoes.”
“Oh!” said the mother, smiling, and shaking her head. “Can they plant potatoes already?”
“Why, Eleseus, he gives a hand with this, and little Sivert helps with that,” said Isak proudly.
Little Leopoldine was asking for something to eat. Oh, the pretty little creature; a ladybird up on a cart! She talked with a sing in her voice, with a strange accent, as she had learned in Trondhjem. Inger had to translate now and again. She had her brothers’ features, the brown eyes and oval cheeks that
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