The other one he loved like a slave, like a madman and like a beggar. Why? Ask the dust on the road and the falling leaves, ask the mysterious God of life; for no one knows such things. She gave him nothing, no nothing did she give him and yet he thanked her. She said: Give me your peace and your reason! And he was only sorry she did not ask for his life.
Interpretation
The quote explores the complexities of unrequited love and the deep, often irrational emotions that accompany it.
In this quote, Knut Hamsun delves into the profound sense of longing and devotion that can accompany love, especially when it is not reciprocated. The speaker reflects on their feelings for someone who, despite giving nothing in return, holds immense power over their emotions. The longing is so intense that the speaker feels gratitude for merely having had the chance to express their feelings, highlighting the often inexplicable nature of love and the sacrifices one is willing to make in its name.
In practice
This quote could be shared during a conversation about the nature of love and sacrifice in relationships.
The intelligent poor individual was a much finer observer than the intelligent rich one. The poor individual looks around him at every step, listens suspiciously to every word he hears from the people he meets; thus, every step he takes presents a problem, a task, for his thoughts and feelings. He is alert and sensitive, he is experienced, his soul has been burned.
Earth and sea merged, the sea tossed itself in the air in a fantastic dance, into the shapes of men and horses and tattered banners. I stood in the lee of an overhanging rock and thought of many things.
The writer must be able to revel and roll in the abundance of words; he must know not only the direct but also the secret power of a word. There are overtones and undertones to a word, and lateral echoes, too.
No worse fate can befall a young man or woman than becoming prematurely entrenched in prudence and negation.
In old age we are like a batch of letters that someone has sent. We are no longer in the past, we have arrived.
There are some people who cannot help giving. Why? Because they experience a real psychological pleasure in doing so. They don't do it with an eye to their own advantage, they do it on the quiet; they detest doing it openly because that would take away some of the satisfaction. They do it in secret, with quick trembling hands, their breasts rocked by a spiritual well being which they do not themselves understand.
But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
He was like a song I'd heard once in fragments but had been singing in my mind ever since.
Belief, like love, must be voluntary.
What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?
Lovers have heartaches _x000D_ That can't be cured by drugs _x000D_ Or sleep, _x000D_ Or games, _x000D_ But only by seeing their beloved.
Am I in love? --yes, since I am waiting. The other one never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game. Whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.
Subscribe for the occasional hand-picked quote. No noise.