Can you love a book, yet revile its author?
By Marjorie Kehe | 10.26.09
The answer must be yes. In an interesting piece in yesterday’s Los Angeles Times, book critic Matt Shaer remembers the case of Knut Hamsun, 1920 Nobel laureate in literature. On the strength of Hamsun’s novel “Hunger,” he was considered a “leading humanist.”
At least he was until 20 years later, when he turned to Nazism with such enthusiasm that he mailed his Nobel medal to Joseph Goebbels in a gesture of admiration.”Personally and politically,” Shaer writes, Hamsun “was a monster” – a man who “berated his friends and cheated on his wives” and who “could be horrible to his children.”
And yet this was also a man who wrote, “beautifully, poetically and savagely,” an author of whom Isaac Bashevis Singer once said, “The whole school of fiction in the 20th century stems from Hamsun.”
It brings to mind a short piece from the New Yorker’s Book Bench last year about the poetry of accused Bosnian Serb war criminal Radovan Karadzic. A New Yorker blogger tells the story of Bosnian writer Semezdin Mehmedinovic who felt such anger at a television appearance by Karadzic that he began to physically tear apart a copy of “There Are Miracles, There Are No Miracles,” Karadzic’s book of verse for children. But watching was one of the book’s enthusiastic readers, Mehmedinovic’s 11-year-old son, who, according to Mehmedinovic, “threw a fit before my very eyes.”
The cause of the boy’s upset: “My son knew the author of the book, and he couldn’t let himself believe such a man would want to harm him.”
Which raises the question: When we read and feel we connect deeply with an author, who or what is it that has actually spoken to us? And why is it that learning something about that author’s life can sometimes provoke deep disappointment?
Does the confusion that may result come from knowing the author too little – or is it that, when we read him, we simply know him differently?
Marjorie Kehe is the Monitor’s book editor. You can follow her on Twitter at twitter.com/MarjorieKehe.
Comments
2. Thomas | 10.26.09
Yes, yes, yes. From a French point of view, the distinction is taken for granted, with Céline a perfect illustration. During WWII, Céline’s behavior and writings were truly abject. Still, he is revered as a master, especially for Mort à Crédit and Voyage au bout de la nuit. Proust famously stated that the writer’s biography is totally irrelevant when it comes to assessing his work, because what he expresses in it lies much deeper than his social, or even his family life.
Besides, if you think that a writer’s work is tarnished in some way or another by what he has done in his life, where do you stop? Should writers be ‘vetted?’ Not if you remain in the field of art (so this would exclude the Nobel Prize).
3. Semezdin Mehmedinovic | 10.26.09
Dear Marjorie Kehe,
I think that you should read the New Yorker Book Bench article again, because you have misinterpreted the fragment from my book, Sarajevo Blues. If you take a second look at the article, you will see that I do not object to Karadzic “being able to publish books” but rather respond to his apperance on the TV.
The article states: „Semezdin Mehmedinovic, in his book “Sarajevo Blues,” remembers watching Karadzic on the news at the height of the siege: ‘Karadzic spouted such blatant lies that, in a rage, I found a book of his children’s poetry—”There Are Miracles, There Are No Miracles”—and began ripping it apart.’”
I have no objection to anyone publishing a book. My anger was brought about because of Karadzic’s lies on the TV as his solders were killing innocent people.
Also, you probably haven’t had a chance to read Karadzic’s books. I do not believe he is comparable to Hamsun.
Semezdin Mehmedinovic
4. editorial | 10.27.09
Dear Semezdin Mehmedinovic:
I’m sorry if I misrepresented your reasons for tearing the book. I have since amended by blog to reflect your correction. And you’re right, I have not read Karadzic’s books. My intent, however, was not to compare the content of his works to the content of Hamsun’s, but rather to compare the reactions of readers. My point was that despite the characters and other crimes of these men, they were still able to create works that provoked positive reactions in readers. I don’t pretend to be able to explain that paradox – I was simply acknowledging that it can happen.
Thanks for writing. I appreciate the correction.
Marjorie Kehe
5. Norwegian | 10.28.09
” Hamsun “was a monster” – a man who “berated his friends and cheated on his wives” and who “could be horrible to his children.”
I am saddened by reading this. It is simply not true. Hamsun helped his friends when they needed it, helped people whom he didn’t even know. Had it not been for Hamsun, the Norwegian literature would have been a poor one; not only because we wouldn’t have Hamsuns works, but because he helped countless writers with money for food and hooked them up with publishers etc etc.
He was loved by his friends. He never cheated on his wives, and his children and grandchildren loved their father.
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1. Julie P. | 10.26.09
Sometimes we encounter people who seem a truly startling mixture of good and bad qualities. If they are artists, we may know them through their art — and often their art is the very best part of them. We want to know more, but we’ve already experienced the best they have to offer. How can the dichotomy be explained? I look at my garden. I have some beautiful flowers that passing neighbors enjoy with me. But if I haven’t kept it weeded, all sorts of things spring up in it — some pretty ugly! The seeds blow in from elsewhere. I wasn’t watchful and let them develop. Perhaps it’s something like that with artists that have such beautiful flowers growing in a soul nearly overrun with weeds. And who knows if the flowers won’t, instead, someday overrun the weeds!