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Knut Hamsun’s novel ‘Hunger’ is found on a bench in the south of France and completely disintegrates as it is read one last time.

“Well hello there Knut Hamsun,” old friends say as he enters the bar.

On one hand, Knausgaard argues that Knut Hamsun had to abandon “every semblance of self-censorship” in order to inhabit his characters, and that Ingmar Bergman’s genius came from depths of the unconscious, “where boundlessness prevails.”

There’s an alert defense of Knut Hamsun’s fiction.

I remember he gave me his copy of Hunger by Knut Hamsun when I told him I hadn’t read it.