Hunger by Knut Hamsun

Hans Pauli in a good mood at one blow when I entered. He surely wouldn’t refuse me a helping hand when I explained my situation to him, oh no; Hans Pauli had such a big heart, I’d always said that about him.
    I found his card on the door. “H. P. Pettersen, stud. theol.—gone home.”
    I sat down instantly, sat on the bare floor tired as a log, undone by prostration. I repeat mechanically a couple of times, Gone home! Gone home! Then I keep perfectly still. There wasn’t a tear in my eyes, I had neither thoughts nor feelings of any kind. I sat staring at the letters with wide-open eyes without doing a thing. Ten minutes went by, perhaps twenty or more, and I still sat there on the same spot, not moving a finger. This dull stupor was almost like a nap. Then I hear someone coming up the stairs and I get up and say, “I’m looking for Mr. Pettersen, the student—I have two letters for him.”
    â€œHe’s gone home,” the woman answers. “But he’ll be back after the vacation. I could take the letters, of course, if you like.”
    â€œThanks, that’s nice of you,” I said, “then he’ll get them as soon as he comes back. They might contain something important. Goodbye.”
    When I got outside I stopped and said aloud in the middle of the street, clenching my fists, “I will tell you one thing, my dear Lord—you are a so-and-so!” Then I nod furiously up at the clouds, gritting my teeth, “I’ll be damned, but you are a real so-and-so!”
    I took a few steps and stopped again. Suddenly changing my posture, I fold my hands, lean my head sideways and ask in a sweet, sanctimonious voice, “Have you indeed turned to him, my child?”
    It didn’t sound right.
    â€œWith a capital H, I say, with an H as big as a cathedral! Once more, ‘Have you indeed called upon Him, my child?’ ” Then I lower my head, make my voice sorrowful and answer, “No.”
    That didn’t sound right either.
    â€œYou don’t know how to act the hypocrite, you fool! Yes, you should say, yes, I have called upon my God and Father! And you should utter your words to the most pitiful tune you have ever heard. So, once more! Yes, that’s better. But you have to sigh, sigh like a colicky horse. That’s it.”
    I walk along instructing myself like this, stamping my feet impatiently when I don’t get it right and reviling myself for a blockhead, while the astonished passersby turn around to watch me.
    I chewed steadily on my wood shaving and shambled through the streets as fast as I could. Before I knew it, I was way down at Jærnbanetorvet Square. The clock of Our Savior’s showed half-past one. I stopped awhile, pondering. My face broke out in a cold sweat, it oozed its way down into my eyes. “Come let’s go for a walk to the pier!” I said to myself. “That is, if you can spare the time.” And I bowed to myself and went down to Jærnbane Pier.
    Out there were the ships, and the sea swayed in the sunshine. There was a hustle and bustle everywhere—blasting steam whistles, porters with crates on their shoulders, and lively sea shanties coming from the barges. Not far away from me sits a cake vendor, bending her brown nose over her merchandise; the small table in front of her is hideously loaded with dainties, and I turn away in distaste. She fills the entire quay with her kitchen odors; ugh, open the windows! I turn to a gentleman sitting next to me and try earnestly to make him see the nuisance of having cake vendors here, there and everywhere. . . . No? But surely he had to admit that . . . The good man smelled a rat, however, and didn’t even let me finish what I had to say before getting up and leaving. I got up too and followed him, firmly set on convincing the man that he was wrong.
    â€œFor sanitary reasons, if for nothing else,” I said, patting him on the