Fatherlessness, violence and suicidal tendencies in Norway. A review of the novel ‘Mysteries’ by Knut Hamsun
Book: Mysteries
Author: Knut Hamsun
A review by Ian Young
[Editor’s note: How do we get boys to read books? We know that in the UK since the late 1980s boys have been falling behind girls in educational achievement. Erin Pizzey recently suggested that the type of books boys are given to read in school are often more suited to the interests of girls. This raises the question of whether there is a way we can somehow spark boys’ interest in reading. It so happens that the book review below accidentally but powerfully addresses this question].
Mysteries was the first book I read since leaving school several years previously. As a newcomer to London culture of the late 1980s, my mind couldn’t cope with the boring and irritating journey of an hour and 20 minutes from the depths of South West London to see my Irish friends in the far reaches of North East London. Not only was I travelling from one depressingly drab and dodgy suburb to another, I was doing so 100 feet under the soil, rattling along at 50 miles per hour in a grimy Victorian carriage, with fellow passengers who either determinedly ignored everyone around them, or – probably due to taking too many drugs or too little medication - unselfconsciously made themselves impossible for anyone around them to ignore them.
Given this environment, an escape was needed. Maybe I could read something to pass the time? There were always copies of The Evening Standard discarded on a seat you could read, but I quickly found this ‘newspaper’ was unbearably smug, making the journey even more painful.
I told one of my Irish friends about it. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘You should read… hang on…’ he rummaged on the messy kitchen table, ‘…this’. I looked at the cover: it was about superheroes, The Watchmen. I looked blankly at the cover and handed it back: ‘Thanks but this is a… comic or something. I liked reading comics as a kid but… Do you have a magazine about-’. He cut me off: ‘It’s a graphic novel. Try it. You will like it’. I was too hungover to argue. I thought f*** it, what the hell, let’s try it. Can’t be worse than The Evening Standard.
“When I was reading the book my mind was 100% transported out of the tube train. This astonished me… Beat that, Houdini.”
So I took the book with me on the return journey. Two things impressed me: first, the author somehow made costumed heroes and their arch enemies not only seem like people who might plausibly exist in real life - that was no mean feat - but the other thing was truly incredible: when I was reading the book my mind was 100% transported out of the tube train. This astonished me. I could one moment be immersed in a fight between Ridiculously Costumed Good and Flamboyantly Exhibitionist Evil in some kind of bargain basement Gotham City, and the next moment find myself looking across the carriage at a scruffy half-conscious old man dribbling into a can of Kestrel Super, the tube train screetching into Clapham North tube station. I had just escaped from the London Underground without even leaving my seat. Beat that, Houdini.
The next time I visited my friends, I returned The Watchmen and their arch enemies to their owner. ‘Thanks. That was pretty good. Do you have anything else like this?’ Without hesitation he handed me a book with a cover that somehow managed to be simultaneously boring and unsettling. I tried to read the author’s name. F*** it – unpronounceable. “Wait a second, hang on. What’s this. Who… Nuts what… Hamsun?” I squinted at the back cover. Author from Norway. Born 1859?? Writes about nature. What? Book written 1892. Christ. I had left school aged 16, and one thing I had learned was an enduring suspicion of anything that threatened to be in any way highbrow or educational.
“Thanks but… Norway? Nineteenth century? I don’t have time for this. He likes nature… so he’s got a weird obsession with flowers or something? Ok, do you have anything interesting? I mean…”. He assured me the book was worth a look. I had to catch my train, so despite feeling very frustrated I didn’t bother arguing but promised revenge on that pranky bastard if this book was as crap as it looked.
“It occurred to me that if you could take the pages of that book and condense that precise combination of words and their meaning into a pill, people would never want to take drugs again. You could say goodbye to hangovers, addictions, dealers, addicts, victims, burglaries – the lot. All gone.”
I got on the tube train and opened the book, started reading and… WHOOOSHHH… I was in a totally different world. I f***ing loved it. One minute I had time travelled into the mind of an insane Norwegian genius 100 years in the past, and the next minute I would look up, and I was back on Earth - or rather 100 feet below it - staring at a ripped up seat smeared with chewing gum.
F***! How was this possible? It was like some sort of mental teleportation or dodgy magic trick. A dab of mescalin on the dust jacket? Nah. But if it was a trick, it was a bloody good one. It occurred to me that if you could take the pages of that book and condense that precise combination of words and their meaning into a pill, people would never want to take drugs again. You could say goodbye to hangovers, addictions, dealers, addicts, victims, burglaries – the lot. All gone.
So what was this book all about? In summary, it’s about an eccentric stranger’s arrival to a small Norwegian town, and the impact on the lives of the local people. The magic is in that Hamsun has the knack of the true storyteller, of drawing you in and leading you along every step of the way until nothing else is real, and you have become more a witness than a reader. Every now and then, without warning you are brutally blindsided by something you couldn’t have predicted, and compelled to read on and on because you need to know what happens next, where the hell it’s going to end. You are the helpless passenger on journey you can’t control, with relentless Hamsun mercilessly at the wheel. Is he crazy? You have no way of knowing. But you know you don’t want the journey to stop.
Mysteries gives some interesting insights into the psychology of men. It is a bit difficult to discuss these insights directly without giving too much away about the plot, but suicide - or the threat of it - is never far from the surface of Mysteries. The central character shows he is capable of violence, and the roots of this tendency are hinted at increasingly as the tale moves forward. Without wanting to give too much away, a subtheme of Mysteries is the enduring impact of fatherlessness on sons. But now I have said all I can about the plot. I don’t want you blaming me for spoiling the book for you.
Hamsun is so unique that it is difficult to compare a book like Mysteries to anything else, even his other books for that matter. I will make a comparison that might surprise a few people: Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte (1847). Bronte writes powerful descriptions of nature and human passions, as does Hamsun. Some of the themes are similar too, such as the enduring impact of fatherlessness on Heathcliff – who, like the protagonist in Mysteries, is prone to violence and suicide. In both books there lurks the potentially chaotic and destructive effects of romantic love. However, as brilliant as Wuthering Heights is, if you are looking for truly strange and entertaining rollercoaster ride, then Mysteries wins hands down. In fact Mysteries, written in 1892, was ahead of it’s time in lots ways, and is difficult to compare it with much up until books like Hermann Hesse’s 1927 masterpiece Steppenwolf. In the time after Hamsun’s death in the 1950s, some novels take the surreal magic of a book like Mysteries altogether too far, such as the self-consciously outré storylines of John Irving.
I don’t expect everyone to have the same experience that I had when reading Mysteries. Probably different people will be inspired by different books at different times in their lives, and clearly there were situational factors that created a unique experience for me. But I would recommend anyone to take this book on the London Underground, or anywhere else you want to escape from, and let the master storyteller Knut Hamsun take you on his magic journey. I dare you.
Scroll down to join the discussion
Disclaimer: This article is for information purposes only and is not a substitute for therapy, legal advice, or other professional opinion. Never disregard such advice because of this article or anything else you have read from the Centre for Male Psychology. The views expressed here do not necessarily reflect those of, or are endorsed by, The Centre for Male Psychology, and we cannot be held responsible for these views. Read our full disclaimer here.
Like our articles?
Click here to subscribe to our FREE newsletter and be first
to hear about news, events, and publications.
Have you got something to say?
Check out our submissions page to find out how to write for us.
.