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But now it was spring again, and spring was almost unbearable for sensitive hearts. It drove creation to its utmost limits, it wafted its spice-laden breath even into the nostrils of the innocent.

Knut Hamsun

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Knut Hamsun
Age: 92 †
Born: 1859
Born: August 4
Died: 1952
Died: February 19
Author
Critic
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Knut Pedersen Hamsun
Hamsun
Even
Breath
Nostrils
Heart
Breaths
Spice
Innocent
Spices
Hearts
Drove
Spring
Utmost
Limits
Laden
Creation
Unbearable
Almost
Sensitive
Wafted

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Do you know what constitutes a great poet? He is a person without shame, incapable of blushing. Ordinary fools have moments when they go off by themselves and blush with shame not so the great poet.... If you really have to quote someone, quote a geographer that way you won't give yourself away. (p 44)
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Were I more conversant with literature and its great names, I could go on quoting them ad infinitum and acknowledge my debt for the merit you have been generous enough to find in my work
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And love was creation's source,creation's ruler but all love's ways are strewn with blossoms and blood, blossoms and blood.
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But things worked out. Everything works out. Though sometimes they work out sideways.
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Keep it, keep it! I answered. You are very welcome to it! It is only a couple of small things, doesn't amount to anything—about everything I own in the world.
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One must know and recognize not merely the direct but the secret power of the word.
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A word can be transformed into a coulour, light, a smell it is the writer's task to use it in such a way that it serves, never fails, can never be ignored.
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I have had much to learn from Sweden's poetry and, more especially, from her lyrics of the last generation.
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In old age we are like a batch of letters that someone has sent. We are no longer in the past, we have arrived.
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In my solitude, many miles from men and houses, I am in a childishly happy and carefree state of mind, which you are incapable of understanding unless someone explains it to you
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I stood in the lee of an overhanging rock and thought of many things.
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Do not forget, some give little, and it is much for them, others give all, and it costs them no effort who then has given most?
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A few days back someone sent me two feathers. Two bird's feathers in a sheet of note-paper with a coronet, and fastened with a seal. Sent from a place a long way off from one who need not have sent them back at all. That amused me too, those devilish green feathers.
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But what really matters is not what you believe but the faith and conviction with which you believe.
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The long, long road over the moors and up into the forest - who trod it into being first of all? Man, a human being, the first that came here. There was no path before he came.
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The whisper of the blood and the pleading of the bone marrow.
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And the great spirit of darkness spread a shroud over me...everything was silent-everything. But upon the heights soughed the everlasting song, the voice of the air, the distant, toneless humming which is never silent.
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I have gone to the forest.
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There was a rock in front of my hut, a tall, gray rock. By its looks it seemed to be well-disposed toward me.
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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.
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