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332 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1920
"Time passes, then; everything passes; and many things even pass off well. What the supreme good is, we do not know. Going up and coming down are clearly parts of the whole to which everything belongs. A candle burns steadily in a candlestick. The door opens, the candle goes out. Whose fault is it? What fault?" (389)This was one of the last works by Hamsun that I hadn't yet read; I started it during a rather turbulent period, after having just started my PhD. I have to admit that I almost gave up on it. The fault was not so much with the book itself—although especially in the beginning it is slow-paced. It was mostly my act of stopping and starting it—reading 10 pages at a time—that killed the experience. Again, I was on the verge of putting it aside, but I couldn't suppress the feeling that I would be doing Hamsun an injustice. So I pulled myself together, made more time to read longer stretches of The Women at the Pump, and finished it. I'm very happy that I did.
Now as before, as nearly always these last twenty years, Oliver's life is partly within the law, partly on the borderline, occasionally a little outside.
Oliver was made of sterner stuff, less delicate and sensitive, more carefree, in short, the right human clay; he could endure life. Who had taken a harder knock than he? But a tiny upward turn in his fortunes, a lucky theft, a successful swindle, restored him to contentment.
Oliver no longer begins anything anywhere, beginning things is not his business, he stays where he is put, uncrushed by human thought, unconverted by the women at the pump. Naturally life, fate, and God are damned high-class questions and very necessary questions, but they will be solved by people who have learned to read and write; what use are they to Oliver? If a brain like his starts busying itself with the why and the wherefore, it will go into a tailspin, and then Oliver will be unable to continue with his work, to enjoy his food and candy, to be fit for what he is. Leave getting above oneself to others!Oliver has ups and downs throughout his life, and his relationship with his wife, Petra, is stormy. At times they seem to hate each other. Here's Petra's view of him at one such low point.
Petra doesn't answer, doesn't look at him, she is so weary of his talk and of his person. Oh, that lump of fat in the chair—it breathes, it wears clothes that someone has sewn, it has buttons on its clothes; on its upper end it has a hat, tilted at an angle. She knows it all inside out, the sprawling wooden leg that projects into the narrow room and blocks the way, his conversation, all the lies, the bombast, the voice that grows more and more like a woman's, the lusterless, watery-blue gaze, the mouth that is perpetually moist. Year by year he seems to be going to pieces; only his appetite remains intact. And there isn't always enough to eat.Still, Oliver and Petra have two boys, Frank and Abel, and three girls. Throughout the book it is clear that there is more to Oliver's injury than he lets on and although it's pretty clear to the reader what the problem is, the rest of the characters seem oblivious, and at times Oliver and Petra themselves seem unaware.
Human beings push against each other and trample on each other; some sink exhausted to the ground and serve as a bridge for others, some perish—they are the ones least fitted for coping with the push, and they perish. That can't be helped. But the others flourish and blossom. Such is life's immortality. All this, mind you, they knew at the pump.