Each page had told its part of the story and was now but an old scrap of paper filled with little black marks.Īfter reading the book in amazement, in one long sitting, the book as such no longer existed, and I walked out of the paper-ridden plaza and into the cool night. Others had been windswept, fluttering pigeon-like around the small plaza. Maybe it just felt that way after so many pages.Īs I neared the end, loose pieces of paper lay on the bench beside me, in an unkept pile. It occurred to me, as I kept reading, that my hands had begun to imperceptibly help tear off each page after I'd finished it. But I was convinced that the book wouldn't survive if I tried to take it with me, that I had to finish it right then and there - light or no light, pain or no pain. I kept reading and the book just kept falling apart in my hands.
Before I realized it, I was more than halfway through the story. I had never before read anything by Hamsun, for no particular reason, but I found his tone captivating, his prose sparse and direct.
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