Dangerous literature.

There is definitely a reason why I have to keep a list of the books I read. In my last update I completely forgot to mention the most recent book I read: Uten en tråd (Without a Stitch) by Jens Bjørneboe!

This is not a fabulous work of literature. It does not compete in the same league as his Moment of Freedom, Powderhouse and The Silence, which are all part of a trilogy, but it's worth reading anyway.

The title of the book provides a hint as to what it's about: sex. The story is that of a 19-year-old girl (Lillian) who suffers from inhibitions when having sex and who cannot achieve an orgasm with a man. One of her friends tells her to go to a doctor who specializes in the area. We get to follow Lilian's treatment with this doctor and a subsequent backpacking trip in Europe where she puts some of what she has learned to practice.

Except for the very beginning this book is highly amusing. The beginning loses some force due to it being a bit too serious; you don't really get the feel of the rest of the book, which is really quite sarcastic. It was written as a criticism towards conservative sexual morality that turns sexuality in general and feminine sexuality in particular into something shameful. A recurring theme is Lillian seeing the face of her mother and grandmother at inappropriate times, and the doctor asking her how she can be so ashamed when she isn't harming anyone.

Perhaps I should mention that it was written in 1966 and was banned by the authorities? It was actually the last book that was ever banned in Norway, and what happens when your book is banned? You get lots of attention! As a side note, I think it was John Cleese who thanked Norway for banning Life of Brian...

"Banned in Norway!"

What I liked most about Without a Stitch was actually the text found at the end, "Instead of a defense speech", which is an attack on Norwegian society and double standards. Why is unlimited violence and sexual violence towards women permitted (he mentions some other publication involving women and baboons that was not banned), whereas sexuality seen from the point of view of a woman is so despicable?

Right now I'm very much in the mood for classics, so I think I'm going to stay in the 19th century for a while. When I come back, I will read more of Bjørneboe's books.

There was a sale on the sale and I am still a woman.

The front batch of tulips are mutant-tulips. Unfortunately, this is difficult to see on this particular photo.

And every time I get new books I have to post pictures of them. Perhaps my relationship to books is not really healthy, but since we just moved, and I don't see us moving until perhaps in... two-three years from now, I somehow think I can buy new books. Excuses, excuses... But they were cheap, okay? And I actually put two away, Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness and another book I can't remember the title of.

The French book I bought indirectly. A friend of mine went to Belgium, and a friend who goes to a French speaking country without buying books for me is not a real friend. Reading the blurb (it hurts my soul to use that word...) made me think of Jean Giono, which made me realize I want to read more of his books (I may have some, perhaps, possibly). I think I need to go to France soon, anyway.

I have posted earlier about Jens Bjørneboe (#1, #2), the magic Jens Bjørneboe. Three of his books on sale? Irresistible. One of them is an erotic tale that he got prosecuted for. Mmm, free-spirited Norway.

I have previously read Dreams Of My Russian Summers by Andrei Makiné, and I enjoyed it. Seeing another one of his books practically for free made it an easy decision...

I leave you with this, which I found thanks to one of the members of the LanguageLearners Forum.

There was a sale and I'm a woman.

Well actually, I did not buy all of these books at this year's book sale. Usually I buy more, but that's just because the Swedish book sales are actually cheap...

Speaking of Sweden, I visited a bookstore with my boyfriend the other day, and we went by the Swedish corner. There's always lots of Swedish crime novels in Norwegian bookstores, but this particular one also has a table with a sign saying "Swedish paperbacks are extremely cheap". And with paperbacks that cost 75NOK instead of the usual 100NOK, I guess that's true. For me, that's still a lot of money for a paperback. My boyfriend snatched up a book, went and paid for it and told me it was about me. It's the book in the picture that says "Duktighetsfällan", with a mirror on it. "Duktig" is one of those Swedish words that I always have some trouble translating; it's both "good" (as in "Good boy!"), "skillful", "dutiful"... lots of things! "Fälla" is much easier: trap. "The trap of being too good." The book deals with the problem of burning yourself out doing too many things, a problem that mostly affects women in today's Sweden and that leads to some only being able to work for seven or eight years before becoming permanently ill. It's about perfectionism and high demands. Even though I don't think all of it really applies to me, I do recognize many things, like for example how all the women in the book (patients) get annoyed by how little their boyfriends do, at how they can just exist. There are actually two sorts of "duktighetsfällor", the female kind and the male kind. The female kind is more about pleasing everyone, never saying no and neglecting yourself until it makes you break down. (Boring.) The male variant, however, is about measuring worth in achievement (you are what you achieve), and never being satisfied with the results - a sort of perfectionism that women are taking over. Quite appropriately, everyone I know who fits this description are women. But I've only read half the book so far, so I'm no expert yet.

During our three hours in Kiel on Tuesday, I naturally had to visit a bookstore. Again, my boyfriend just went and picked up a book that he liked the look of, Mängelexemplar by Sarah Kuttner, and suggested I get it. And I did, because I found the synopsis appropriate.

"Karo lebt schnell und flexibel. Sie ist das Musterexemplar unserer Zeit: intelligent, selbstironisch und liebenswert. Als sie ihren Job verliert, ein paar falsche Freunde aussortiert und mutig ihre feige Beziehung beendet, verliert sie auf einmal den Boden under den Füssen. Plötzlich ist die Angst da."

I love things that have something to do with anxiety!

Let's move on to my book sale shopping! I never buy hardcover books, simply because they are ridiculously expensive and there's always a paperback that's cheaper. But when there's a sale... Funnily enough, the last time I bought hardcover books was when my boyfriend entered a book club and got three books for free. I got (yes it was more like me joining the club) Per Petterson's Jeg forbanner tidens elv (I curse the river of time), Magda Szabó's The Door, and another book. What did I get this time? Per Petterson's Ut og stjæle hester (Out Stealing Horses) and Magda Szabó's The Deer! What a coincidence. I can't wait to read some more Szabó. I got a third book as well, perhaps the most spoken about Norwegian book in many years, after Ut og stjæle hester I guess. Min kamp by Knausgård. There are six or so books in this series, and everyone reads them. There's been lots of scandal around them, because they are based on the author's real life - and he hasn't gone too very much trouble to dissimulate the other characters in the book. It will be fun to finally read it.

Per Petterson and the gang.

I have always had something of a problem when it comes to keeping up with modern literature. There are just so many classics left to read, so I have never really understood when I am supposed to find time for modern prose. Especially when I started reading in multiple languages, and often quite slowly, this became an even bigger problem. Therefore I am quite proud of how much modern Norwegian literature I have been reading lately. Yesterday I started reading (and read half of) Jeg forbanner tidens elv (I curse the river of time, supposedly a line from a poem by Mao, but I don't know what the "official" translation of the phrase is) by Per Petterson. Funnily enough, this book makes me think of a couple of other brilliant Scandinavian books, and I think it embodies exactly what I like about Scandinavian literature. This particular author uses a rather simple language and some of the forms feel rather like spoken language to me, something I'm not sure I appreciated at first, but then this is Norwegian and Norwegian abides by like 10 different sets of rules. What makes it rather typically Scandinavian, at least for me, is the general sadness that prevails throughout the entire book. There's a sort of weight placed on top of every word, adding a depressing tone to even the happy recollections, but sad books don't bring me down, quite the opposite.

The topic of this book is the life of the narrator, who is now an elderly man. Throughout the book you get to follow different episodes from his life, cut up into different chapters and intertwined with each other, ranging from when he was a child to his divorce and the cancer his mother suffered from as an old woman. Absolutely everything in this book feels typical for me. Since I am very familiar with Oslo now, I recognize all the places he speaks about and I have even lived and worked in them, something that doubtlessly brings me closer to the story, but the people he describes also feel extremely real. His mother, the weird distance she keeps between herself and her son, her constant shortness, her apparent indifference and self-sacrifice do not appear strange at all, nor the weakness (male) of the main character and his father. I get the impression it could have been anyone. His wife, who is divorcing him and whom he cannot look at anymore, and who tells him to stop being so ridiculous, also feels... right.

Other books or authors this one reminds me of are Elisabeth Rynell (Till Mervas especially), Mare Kandre (Aliide, Aliide) and Herbjørg Wassmo (Tora Trilogy). These are the kind of books I enjoy studying foreign languages for. You can certainly read quite a lot of books translated, but there is always a big part of literature that never gets translated, and when it comes to Swedish literature, detective stories seems to be what gets translated and sold abroad. The good literature stays in Sweden.


Jeg forbanner tidens elv has, by the way, won the literary award of the Nordic Council and has been called the best Norwegian book of 2008. In 2003 he wrote another book that became absolutely huge, not only in Norway but abroad as well. So I think that's what I'm going to read once I get back from Russia.

Jens Bjørneboe.

I have almost finished Bjørneboe’s trilogy Bestialitetens historia, and I thought I would provide you with an extract from the end of it, just like I chose one from the beginning when I started reading the book. The books are great, by the way. For me it's the essence of literature, this is what it should be all about.



Jeg ser meget annet også inne i meg, når jeg ligger sammenkrøllet under teppet, full av sovepiller og alkohol, mens jeg kjenner den milde varmen i kroppen, og vet at bevisstheten ikke lenger er av piggtråd og smerte. Jeg ser meg selv som barn, da jeg drakk vin for første gang og visste at dette, det var min drikk... at den hjalp... lindret... at den var levende vann... tryllevann... Da jeg var eldre, ti år gammel, drakk jeg opp et helt vinanker, mens mine foreldre var bortreist. Jeg hadde mine første hallusinasjoner da; jeg så en løve sitte i min fars lenestol, en stor, gul og prektig løve. Og ved siden av den satt en ung mann i blå skjorte og grå bukser. Stolsetet bøyet seg under vekten av løven. Jeg følte ingen angst hverken for dyret eller for mennesket. Det var tvert imot slik at min vanlige angst var borte, og blodet rant ikke langs vinduspostene og ned på gulvet, og alt var mykt og varmt og stille. Luften mellom gutten og løven og meg var full av blomster og ranker, og når jeg la meg om nettene alene og full, da var jeg ikke redd for mørket, og hylingen fra kattene ute i de våte høstnettene trodde jeg ikke lenger kom fra barn som ble pint. Jeg la meg som nu, med varme og likegladhet i kroppen, med det indre fylt av gode bilder, jeg trakk føttene opp under meg, slik som nu – i fosterstilling – og flettet armene om hverandre, med hendene under armhulene eller i skrittet, og alt var mykhet og mørke og alt var godt, men jeg visste at oppvåkningen kunne bli ond, hvis jeg ikke satte en krukke med avtappet vin ved siden av sengen. Jeg gikk ikke på skole, og jeg ga satan i alle kameratene jeg var redd for og i lærerne som jeg hatet. Jeg drakk av vinen med en gang jeg våknet, og alt var godt.

Hva som skjedde, vet jeg ikke. Men etterpå kom det en tid av den vanlige sorten, hvor mørket var vendt tilbake og hvor skolebøkene var klistret sammen av blod, hvor jeg gråt om natten og drømte at jeg ble jaget ut på bryggen av pøbelen og kastet i oet svarte vannet, som drev av kordonger og fiskekadavere og slim. Det hjalp ikke å holde hendene i skrittet eller under armhulene; kattene i den kalde, svarte haven var ikke lenger katter, men lemlestede bam som gråt... allikevel gikk det forbi, da jeg igjen kom over et større lager med alkohol; jeg blomstret opp og levet igjen som et vanlig bam. Bare da det tok slutt, opplevet jeg noe nytt: for første gang drakk jeg opp min fars barbervann, og han skjønte ikke hvorfor det var blitt borte.