• Posting Tor Ulven – Release reworked (including an excerpt in translation)


• South Africa in the movies – some impressions.


• Staged: phatic sings the blues (and more!). Download phatic music now.

On posting Ulven

It's not easy to translate Ulven. In fact, if you've ever tried it, you'll know the meaning of the Norwegian term "gjendikte": to make parallel poem in a different language, to repoetize. So as a noun it would signify the parallel poem, the re-poem. One reason it's particularly difficult to translate Ulven is his avid use of all sort of Germanizisms: The passive voice, the indefinite pronoun, the endless run-on of clauses, the inventive use of presentation, and so on and on.

The first issue to takle, though, is the novel's title. The Norwegian "Avløsning" is the noun form of the verb "å avløse", to take over for something else. It is used in military terminology to signify a change-of-guards: The guards were released. Hence it has connotations to relief, letting-go, as when a Queen may finally let go of her duties, hand them over to her successor and rest confidently on her laurels. On the far end of the connotative scale is "utløsning", the Germanic prefixes constituting their minimal pairedness. An "utløsning" is an ejection or ejaculation, or a release of energy more generally. So while it was tempting, then, to translate the title to "Relief", I chose Release, since I wanted to maintain some kind of link with the sphere of formal succession.

As I was working on the piece, and, even though I'm a great fan of late Ulven's work, I was struck by the plasticity of his metaphorism, at one point bordering on sentimentality, for instance when one of the narrators wonders if he'd "ever hear the sound of the chimney sweep again." And then I started contemplating what the heck the chimney sweep is supposed to symbolize, anyway. And, finally, what's the machine that "you" will construct meant to symbolize? Puzzling.

Tor Ulven's fate was both sad and sudden. I remember working the night shift in the daily newspaper Dagbladet in 1995 when there was some hushed whispering in the corner of "suspicious death" that had been reported on the police radio. "Suspicious death" is police-code for criminal investigation: A body has been found dead with no apparently "natural" cause. A team from the newspaper was sent out to follow the investigation. If it turned out to be a case of murder, it would be top priority. Murder-stories always collected a large readership, and thus much money for the paper.

When our team came back, though, it was more hushed whispering in the corners. Having worked in the paper for more than a year, I thought I might get an answer if I asked what had happened. As it turns out, it was not a matter of murder. The police had closed the case as no crime had been commited. In other words, it was a case of suicide.

"It was Tor Ulven," the reporter told me. I reacted with shock. Ulven was one of my favorite authors. I'd followed his writing meticulously since I began serious studies of literature many years earlier. He was a central member of the writers around the critically important Vagant literary magazine, and he'd introduced French surrealists and critical theory to the Norwegian language-area. Ulven had just been awarded an important literary prize. He'd pointed a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

Ulven had handed in the manuscript for Mixtum Compositum to his publishers before his death. When it was published the same year, it came with the following excerpt on the dust-jacket:

"Monumentet er et monument over sin egen glemsel. Og får mening først når det ikke finnes noen som kan gi det mening. Det er steinen du holder i hånden. Som du aldri når inn til. Bare speilet viser alltid riktig tid. Når steinen speiler seg, er det ikke av forfengelighet. Speilet røper alt, steinen ingenting. Som stein og speil er det du helst vil vite."

"The monument is a monument of its own forgetting. And is given meaning only when nobody is there to give it meaning. It is the rock you're holding in your hand. That you can never reach in to. It is only the mirror that always displays the correct time. When the rock mirrors itself, it is not out of vanity. The mirror reveals everything, the rock nothing. As rock and mirror is that which you most yearn to know."

Release, published on Gyldendal in 1993, has been noted for its narrative creativity. In an interview with Vagant's Alf van der Hagen, the only interview he ever gave, Ulven is asked to comment on a critic's statement about the novel.

van der Hagen: - The Danish critic and author Christina Hesselholdt writes that she has counted fifteen persons or conciousnesses in the novel?

Ulven: The number is correct.

Later in the interview Ulven stresses that he composes his novel in as simple a manner as possible. Read an excerpt from Release below.

South Africa in the movies – some impressions

The ongoing festival "Films from the South" is showing two South African movies. I went to see them. While Malunde was cinematographically a very conventional movie -- down to the continuity editing, God is African was quite a different, and far more interesting experience, both in terms of the narrative style and the content. This movie, while also about integration, as more an attempt to establish Pan-Africanism on the ground of the foreigner present in South Africa. Set in the mid-90s, Femi, who carries a Nigerian passport, is trying to establish support for a protest against the Nigerian government's planned execution of the writer and activist Ken Saro-Wiwa. The main body of the movie consists of dialogues between the variously located characters -- fellow Nigerians, South African of various "races" and classes, students and journalists -- and Femi. Filmed with a hand-held videocamera and then transferred to the big screen, the cinematography is slightly reminiscent of Lars von Trier and the Dogme-school, and it manages to capture our interest even during some of the rather lengthy dialogues.

Staged: phatic sings the blues

It was a dark and dangy night when I glanced trough the stage curtain to see throngs of fans stomping their feet, shouting for "phatic". I know, I know, these stories should be written by someone else, but, as I've always said, if you want something done properly, you've gotta do it yerself.

So, anyway, while I was basking in the shouts of "What's his name?", and the response "PHATIC", I was preparing the evenings program. The stage was being covered in smoke, strobes piercing through the fog in rythmic intervals. It would have to be "I would like" that would open the show. Its techno-like beat seemed to get crowds going, and if it was one thing I wanted it was a wild crowd. "I would like" was a recitation of a poem by Samuel Beckett on a bed of techno, as simples as that. Then, I thought, I would do "Think", with a beat somewhere up the same alley, but with my own words this time. And with a dramatic end. All lights on stage goes down. Phatic changes shirt, to return with an acoustic guitar. Seated on a stool at the front of the stage I would do "universe-solitude", Beckett's translation of Paul Eluard's "L'Univers-Solitude." But a show can't end on a mellow note, as show-bizzers all know, so it would have to end with my Euro-Rap "am", climaxing in a masturbatory solo on my metallic green Fender Strat. Oh yeah.

Now it was just a matter of doing it.

Download the tracks from the Vitaminic stage.

* * *

Release

by Tor Ulven(*)

(1)

An uneasiness, a small nervous twitch of light (or dark), one could
call it, an airing touching the curtain folds, admitting the pale
summer night shimmer, it occasionally breathes like this, a small
stream gaping and disappearing in a few seconds, then temporary
darkness, then a new breath and a new darkness; it happens every time the
draught (since he has purposefully, due to the strong heat, opened two
windows) opens a crack between the curtains, they flutter and bulge (as a
stage curtain when the actors or stage workers rush past behind it) before
they again hang relatively still in their skirt-like folds. A skirt with a
long split and the entire world hidden behind it. It is, in principle,
only a matter of opening the door and starting to walk, to find
everything, absolutely everything.

(2)

It's dark. He's lying in darkness, almost immovable, immovable on his way
to rest and sleep. He's become used to it, friends with it, a friend of
darkness, the short time of darkness after the curtains are drawn but
before he lights his reading lamp. If everything stands at its usual place
he can transport himself, as he has just done, with a certain confidence,
across the floor from the window to the bed. It is, however, not a full
night's darkness, merely half-obscure dusk; it still shines bright and the
sun reflected from the upper windows of the high-rise buildings burns,
while darkness, or semi-darkness, or the shadow, thickens below, and rises
(he knows) slowly up the floors, from one row of windows to the other, as
if on a measuring rod: almost full. Tonight he entered the smell of the
house like a guest, and again he senses the soothing, metallic vapour of
gun oil; it is within reach of the bed, loaded, as always. He is prepared.
The only matter of uncertainty is that the shells are about half his own
age, in other words over forty years old. Perhaps he should afford new
ones. But if they're never fired, he will have no joy from them, and the
money will be wasted.

(3)

Night inside is as warm as day outside. It could have been the ocean. Does
he have regrets? He doesn't know. At arrival he could have bought a pack
of jam biscuits (he must just soften them in his mouth first) and a bottle
of soda in the kiosk, before embarking upon the laborious trek to the
beach, where he could sit in the grass, with his jacket and crutches
beside him, and shirt-sleeves rolled up, could have eaten his biscuits and
drank the soda, slowly, relishing, while observing the waves rolling in,
feeling the wind in his hair, or, more precisely, on his skull, the smell
of salt, iodine and rotting seaweed. He remembers the last time he was by
the ocean, it must have been about ten years ago, when he saw something
(since it is as if his missing throat is compensated for by good
eyesight), something that first resembled a message-in-a-bottle, then a
cigar case, drifting towards the beach with the wind, but finally changing
into a wooden block, quite simply, a watery wooden block which finally
ended up pushing towards the rocks in sync with the waves, without any
message what-so-ever, smooth, not even with marks from the saw that had
cut it. He remembers the disappointment of sitting there and observing the
insignificant object bobbing towards the beach, the feeling that if one
only waits long enough, something will float, something void of meaning or
significance, perhaps, but something, something will float, drift, loiter,
a block, it's only a matter of waiting, he thinks, it is him, he is a
wooden block pecking at the beach rocks a summer day ten years ago. No,
he's not. He's alive. He's sitting there watching the wooden block in the
water.

(4)

No. He sat and watched the wooden block in the water ten years ago.
Or seventy-three years ago. On the beach. A hand travelling up her
thighs, under her dress, and so on, no, not that, he thinks, but he
could see the bright dots of a sailboat moving through the branches
and leaves, disappear for a second and appear again, painfully slow, and
feel the sour smell of sausages burnt black at the beechtop bonfire (by
that time reduced to a red-orange pile of glows, where scattered wooden
remains shot out, spreading a powder of whirling sparks), and he is
content that that time has passed.

(5)

No, he's not. The core of an apple, for instance, or any fruit or
vegetable, rotting, getting wrinkled, twisted, and shrinking, as the human
body is getting wrinkled and twisted and shrinks and shrinks as the age
increases, as if the common denominator for fruits (or vegetables) and
humans only appears in decay, he thinks. He's sweating, particularly on
his back, a rancid, sticky sweat as syrup to the skin. Something he once
read concerning an artist who had hung a long string of bananas painted
white on some sort of rack by a wall, all of the same form and appearance
and equally artificial, except one, and, as the artist's exhibit
progressed, one of the bananas started rotting, the real, of course, thus
having revealed itself, while the others, the artificial ones, of course,
maintained their whiteness and splendor. No, not the ocean today. How long
had it been? About four months. That is, it was about four months since he
last was out of the house. Each time was an act of courage. But it was
worth it. Never in winter, that's too dangerous. But a grand experience
after having had the same view for four months or half a year. Basically
of no consequence what he sees, as long as it's something else.

(6)

Alright, not through the binoculars: a gyroscopically movable
aluminum tube, mounted on a solid rod, a platform to stand on, and a slit
for the coin (he knows nothing can be seen before he's paid; the coin,
rattling into the box, brings about a sudden epiphany of new and unthought
things, and allows them to appear clearly, magnified, indiscreetly close,
for a charge; he imagines a blind man with tin box rattling on his belly
who incessantly must put coins in the box for a few minutes of vision,
always more coins, and every time he runs out of change, he's completely
blind, until he again can produce another coin; observation isn't free, it
accumulates as debt, and he laughs quietly to himself in darkness at the
thought, fortunately none is there to hear the whooping, gasping hiss of a
throatless laughter). No, not the binoculars. Firstly, he wouldn't have
been safe enough on the small platform (close to a footboard), and,
secondly, he would probably be too slumped and stoop-shouldered to reach
the ocular, and, to top it all, he presumably would have had to let go of
both crutches, or at least one of them, to insert money.

(7)

Thus the naked eye. But he could support his elbows on a table at the
terrace, one of those outdoor café tables of white enameled metal booming
as one hits it, and he could sit on one of those folding chairs with a
high back, a collapsible iron skeleton with wooden crossbars. He could sit
there, harshly and uncomfortably, as it were, in the shade of a plastic
umbrella adorned with fringes and with a printed advertisement for some
brand of soda, while he had coffee and ate waffles with butter and
strawberry jam (even if he had to repeat each part of the order to the
young girl behind the counter three times, and the third time watch how
she thoughtlessly shaped the words with her own mouth, as if she were a
ventriloquist and he the ventriloquist's doll, and he noticed how
horrified and embarrassed she was by the amphibious, toad-like burping and
quacking he made). A barred fan at the counter, it cooled comfortably,
turning from side to side, while, in the empty room, he heard the
clattering of trolleys with cutlery and plates from the kitchen. The first
thing that happened as he re-emerged was that the paper that had covered
the sugar cubes blew away before he got to crumple it.

(8)

The bedside rug didn't slide tonight either. He could sit down in
safety and unbutton his shirt, slowly - each button being a project
of its own - under his stiff and shivering fingers. The tiny, smooth disc
that keeps slipping away, but he finally managed, today as well, even with
the sweat, and without seeing much, in the darkness, or semi-darkness;
it's a liberation each time he feels the release of a button's obstinate
friction against a button hole, and the button lets go, with a slight
push, a victory each time, increasingly splitting the shirt's chest. Now
he's lying here, in bed, in darkness, next to the firewall. First a few
strong, mellow thumps to the inside of the chimney, then a quick and
jerking whistling, it's all repeated, then the clamping as he re-enters
the attic stairs; the chimney sweep usually arrives early in the morning,
and the sounds are due to the tools he's bringing: an iron ball hanging on
a chain, and a tuft of elastic metal ribs fastened to the chain, it must
be so that the ball makes the broom sink to the bottom of the chimney,
while the tuft sweeps away the soot while the entirety: ball, chain, tuft,
is hauled up again, while the more or less pulverized layer of soot
sprinkles down to the basement, where it, subsequently, must be shoveled
out through a hatch made for that purpose. But not now. It is in spring he
arrives, spring and fall, twice a year. We become more unassuming when it
comes to entertainment as we grow older. He wonders whether he will hear
the sounds of the sweeping tool again.

(9)

It's always better to sweat than to be cold, he thinks, but it's not
good to sweat either. He could almost see it in its entirety from
where he sat, under the umbrella at the terrace of the café,
cartographically, in bird's perspective, and it didn't appear to have
grown from the seaside and up, as it clearly had done through the
centuries, but as if it had flown down the valley and dried on the plain
before the ocean in the form of a slow, pale mass of glass, where he could
discern through the haze of heat a number of small, white and apparently
immovable sails between the green-black landmasses of the bay; only if he
stared insistently at one of them could he register how the distance
between the boat and, say, one of the islands diminished, until the sail
disappeared behind it.

(10)

Now it's dark, and yet not entirely so, for some light still slips
past the curtain, both through the small crack in the middle (only an inch
or so, and, on each side of the glowing column, the folds are drawn as
thick, dark lines that taper here and there where the fabric is twisted
inwards or outwards) and through the textile itself, where the real
pattern (stylized clowns, sea lions, circus horses and elephants in a
regular repetition) has become almost invisible, as if it was completely
washed out. In stead you now see something that usually doesn't come out
that well, particularly not when it's light in the room and dark outside
(while it is now dark in the room and light outside): a suggestion of the
weave itself, all the crossing threads that in sum make up the curtain,
approximately as when someone pulls a shirt over your head and in your
resistance you see the light through the fabric of the clothing, but not
what is outside, and your breath makes an imprint. When your head is
finally pulled (forcefully) through the neck, you feel it as a wet spot on
your chest. It is soon forgotten, and by the time you remember it, it's
gone.

(11)

It's not a total darkness, but it turned into a sort of darkness
after her thumb, with a long, red nail, flicked the switch (which
resembles a short, round nose -- it somehow extends when the lamp is
switched off), after she closed the book and leaned over you so that her
while pearl necklace fell into the arch of your neck. It was cold and
tickled, and she had to hold it up with her other hand while putting her
cheek next to yours, and you sensed the smell of perfume and a faint scent
of today's dinner (mutton in cabbage, with the nauseating, sludgy,
grey-white substance, the tough, soda-like meat splinters and the hard
pepper corns that seem to explode in your mouth like firecrackers to your
taste buds when you bite them; you can't help it, even though you're
always told to spit them out and put them on the side of your plate);
stench of mutton in cabbage, that is, from her hair and clothes. If she
had accepted leaving the door ajar, some light would have entered from the
living room, but she won't accept it, she says you must get used to being
alone in darkness, or you'll never get used to it, you who have gone to
school for two years, and there's nothing dangerous in darkness; thus
there is no light from the living room, only some from the window.

(12)

You will construct the machine.

(*) Translation of the first paragraphs of Tor Ulven's Avløsning (Oslo: Gyldendal, 1993) by Torgeir Fjeld.

Out now! Released! Etc!Check out http://stage.vitaminic.com/main/phatic/ for phatic music. More to come.

i've working on music files besides the continued writing on My Grand Project lately. soon there'll be phatic sounds on the net.

Tor Ulven (1953-95), author from Oslo was one of the most peculiar and influential authors [in the Norwegian] in the late 80s and early 90s. Ulven's poetry and prose are both characterized by an extreme realism of detail. His texts are uneventful, but are rather careful descriptions of sense-perceptions and reflections on what is percieved. Ulven is clearly influenced by the French neo-novel, particularly the author Claude Simon.
http://nrk.no/litteratur/forfattere/182901.html

Translation of Ulven's work by Siri Hustvedt is available in _Writ_ #18.
http://www.chass.utoronto.ca/~roger/writ.html

The only interview given by Ulven is available (in the Norwegian) from his publisher.
http://www.aschehoug.no/oktober/dialogerto/ulven_t.html

best,

phatic
editor
utopos

*

Tor Ulven:

Intermission V
(the joys of reading)

It's arduous, it's dangerous, it demands considerable ingenuity and practical ability, and a willful resilience, but it can always be done, and it survives under extreme conditions, on a desert island, on plains of permanent frost, under a stinging tropical sun, possibly among cannibals, one hunts in order not to starve to death, one rubs one's nose incessantly to avoid frost-bites while being pulled by a willing dog team deeper into the darkness, snow and frost of a polar landscape, where gold might be waiting, or the fur animals that are laid down so that diamond-shining madams with stupenduously wealthy husbands may dress fashionably for their charity balls, and you indulge them with a smile, since you know better, you know that life is a struggle with harsh and concrete realities, and you continue fighting criminal corporations and mad professors and poker-faced, gentlemanly thieves, until one day (the specificity of which is unknown), they have lost their luster, and the challenge consists, rather, of conquering (as it's called) women, that is, first dreaming of them, of all the wonderful things sex drive will, in the correct dual combination, or perhaps more coincidentally, more multiply, make of your life, and, moreover, the working life's possibilities of various quirky careers, which are either pushed into the vaguely sensational, or find their place specified in the smallest of detail, details that only serve to allow your uniqe talent to shine, and not to forget the equally fantastic as pointless travels you will venture, not to fight cold or heat or wild animals or bandits, this time, but to greedily slurp the exotic, because you're certain that in some other, more wonderful corner of the world the wonderful will also happen to you, and, not in the least, you'll find for yourself wonderful opportunities which will allow your inner miracle to stand out in its glory, if you only have the courage and will. And you conquer (as it's called) woman, and you step in through the gate of working life, and you also make certain travels, where you, as expected, are exposed to pick-pockets, and you must still struggle to survive, but the brawls are somehow peculiarly small, and they decrease in proportion to the goals, after a while, it's reminiscent of a house-wife's endless stuggle against dust and dirt, which, always ingloriously and unexcitingly, must start from the beginning, and it all has an increasingly unsurprising tendency of repeating itself, return on return, like your paper falls on your doormat with the same slap every morning, as if an outsider counted your days by slapping a palm impatiently on a table, and the print rubs off on your fingers, and you run the risk of dying like this, to succumb over the breakfast table, with your forehead planted in a half-eaten egg or an open sandwich with strawberry jam, and this time the dangers were miniscule, but the risks real, and you lie there, a finished chapter, so to speak, while the trivial letters continue their tale of a struggle against all the dangers people must fight, of ship-wrecks, fires, wars, only rarely of gentlemanly thieves, of fights against criminal corporations, as it were, but more often of the fight against simple street violence and arbitrary murders, and there are heroes, a few, but victims are more numerous, and most of the so-called struggle for existence (according to the print you can no longer read) are carried out with filthy, grotesque,sickening and cynical methods, and the print from all of this is left on your hand as if you were about to submit a fingerprint.

Translation by Torgeir Fjeld.

[Translation of Tor Ulven, "Mellomspill V (lesningens gleder)",
Stein og Speil: Mixtum Compositum, Oslo: 1995, p. 21-23.]

* New site featuring artwork by Denise Pheiffer
* Stories by Kjell Askildsen in translation.
* Translation of “The Fiddle in the Wild Forest” Hans E. Kinck.
* ... and more

Denise now has a site of her own. Check out Interceptions, featuring lots of new artwork.

I’ve kept myself busy translating some stories by Kjell Askildsen. He’s a contemporary Norwegian writer who claims to make no use of symbols or metaphors. Read exerpt of an interview here. I posted some short stories on the list Lit-Ideas, and they’re republished below.

* Kjell Askildsen: Chess
* Kjell Askildsen: Carl
* Kjell Askildsen: People in Cafés
* Kjell Askildsen: The Anchor
* Kjell Askildsen: Thomas

Recently I finished translating a novella by Hans E. Kinck, highly canonized, but yet interesting Norwegian author, somehow associated with the continental fin-de-siecle movement. Not quite homey, not quite international, Kinck tried to bridge the local and the global his stories.

* Hans E. Kinck: The Fiddle in the Wild Forest, part I.
* Hans E. Kinck: The Fiddle in the Wild Forest, part II.
* Hans E. Kinck: The Fiddle in the Wild Forest, part III.

For more information on the highly commendable Lit-Ideas, see my selection of links below.

This blog is a continuation of the e-journal Utopos, which is still available online. Follow this link to enter Utopos.

To discuss topics in this blog, or to give feedback, join the forum located here.

Happy reading!

phatic

* * *

Chess
by Kjell Askildsen

The world isn't what it used to be. For instance, it takes longer to live now. I'm way past 80, and it's not enough. I'm too healthy, even though I don't have much reason to be. Life won't let go of me. If you have nothing to live for, you have nothing to die for. Maybe that's the reason.

One day a long time ago, before my legs were too fragile, I walked over to my brother's. I hadn't seen him for more than three years, but he stayed where I met him last. "Are you alive," he said, even though he was older than me. I had brought a lunch bag, and he gave me a glass of water. "Life's tough," he said, "it's unbearable." I ate and didn't answer. I hadn't come for an argument. So I finished eating and drank my water. He sat and stared at a point just above my head. If I had stood up and he hadn't moved his gaze, he would have looked straight at me. But he probably would have moved it. He didn't like to be with me. Or, more precisely, he didn't like himself to be with me. I think he had a bad conscience, or at least not a good one. He has written some twenty thick novels. I've only written a few, and they're thin. He's considered pretty good, but more than a little naughty. He writes much about love, mostly physical, wherever he might have gotten it from.

He kept staring above my head – he probably thought he could allow himself to do that, having twenty novels on his saggy behind – and I felt like leaving with my business unattended, but that would have been a little silly, too, after the long walk. So I asked if he would care for a game of chess. "It takes so long," he said, "I don't have so much time to take of anymore. You should have come earlier." That was when I should have gotten up and left – it would have been right on him – but I am too polite and considerate, it is my great weakness, one of them. "It doesn't take more than an hour," I said. "The game itself, yes," he answered, "but the excitement afterwards, or the annoyance if I should loose. My heart, you see, it isn't what it used to be. Neither is yours, I assume." I didn't answer. I didn't want to discuss my heart on his premises. So I countered: "So you're afraid of dying. Oh well." "Rubbish. It is just that my life's work isn't finished." That was exactly how pompously he expressed himself. It was nauseating. I had put my cane on the floor. Now I bent down and picked it up. I wanted to end his boasting. "When we die, at least we stop contradicting ourselves," I said, and it wasn't to be expected that he would understand what I was referring to. But he was too conceited to ask what I meant. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said. "Hurt me," I answered quite loudly. It stood to reason that I got a little excited. "I don't give a damn about the little I've written and the little I haven't written." I stood up and gave him a whole little speech: "Every hour of the day the world rids itself of thousands of fools. Imagine – have you ever imagined how much stored stupidity that disappears in a day? All the brains that stop working, because that's where the stupidity sits. But then there's still so much left, of stupidity, because someone has written it down in books. And that's how it's kept alive. As long as people read novels there will be much stupidity. Certain novels. Those in the majority." And then I added, perhaps somewhat opaque, I must admit: "That is why I came for a game of chess." He sat silently for a long while, until I had to leave. Then he said: "That was many words of little use. But I will make the most of them. I will use them. I will put them in mouth of an ignorant."

That's precisely how he was, my brother. By the way, he died the same day. It's not unlikely that I heard his last words, since I left without answering, and he probably didn't like that. He wanted to have the last word, of course, which he got, but he would probably have wanted to say more. When I recall how excited he was, I can't help thinking that the Chinese have their own sign for dying of exhaustion during intercourse.

We were, after all, brothers.

[Translation of Kjell Askildsen, "Chess", first published in Thomas F's siste
nedtegnelser til almenheten by Torgeir Fjeld. Translated from the collection En plutselig
frigjørende tanke, Oslo: Oktober, 1991, 185-187. A Sudden Liberating Thought available from
http://www.amazon.com/ in Sverre Lyngstad's translation.]

* * *

Carl
by Kjell Askildsen

While my wife was alive, I thought that I would have more space when she died. Just imagine all her underwear, I thought, it fills three drawers. I can put my copper coins in one, my matchboxes in another and the corks in a third. As it is now, I thought, it's a complete mess.

And then she died. It's a long time ago. She was a demanding person. But, peace be with her, she finally gave me peace. I emptied drawers and shelves and cupboards of what she had left behind. It turned into lots of empty spaces – more than I could make use of. So I demolished a couple of cupboards. But then I was left with an emptier room instead of two empty closets. It was quite thoughtless of me, but, as I said, it's a long time ago. I was much younger then.

Well, a few weeks, or perhaps months, after I had committed this inconsiderate extension of the room's emptiness, I had a surprise visit from my second oldest son, Carl. He wanted a scarf from his mother. He wanted to give it to his wife as a memory of his childhood. When he realized I had gotten rid of it he turned cantankerous. "Do you hold nothing sacred?" he yelled. And that came from him, who is a businessman and lives off buying and selling things. I felt most like cutting him short, but I refrained. I am, after all, partly to blame for his existence. "What was it that was so special about the scarf?" I asked instead, conciliatory. "Mother knitted it while she carried me. She was particularly fond of it." "Oh, I see. It came into being at the same time as you did. Perhaps you were her favorite son?" "I was, incidentally." "Oh, hardly incidentally," I answered. I began to loose patience with him. He was like her to the dot, and he would be as incapable as she was of discovering the regularity of existence. "Well, the scarf is gone and it will remain gone," I said. "You'll have to find comfort in that we only own forever that which we've lost." Admittedly, it was a nonsensical statement, but I thought he would like it. But I was wrong. For a moment, I had forgotten that he was a businessman. He took an almost threatening step towards where I sat and rambled angrily, but boringly, about my insensitivity. He ended by saying that sometimes he couldn't see how I could be his father. "Your mother was an honorable woman," I answered, but he didn't get the point – why have I been given such dense children. "You don't have to tell me that," he said. His face had turned quite red by now. It suddently occurred to me that he might suffer from a weak heart. After all, he was sixty years old, and, so as to avoid a potential accident, I said I was sorry about the scarf, and that if he had come earlier he would have been given everything his mother left behind. I still think that was a very conciliatory statement, but his face turned redder still. "Are you saying that you threw everything away?" he yelled. "Everything," I answered. "But why?" I didn't want to tell him, so I said: "You would never understand." "How inhuman!" "On the contrary. I acted on a decision of the will, and such acts are almost the only things that make us specifically human." It was, of course, splitting hairs, but it seemed as if he hadn't even heard what I had said. "Then I have no business in this house," he yelled. He had gotten into the habit of yelling, indicating that his wife had turned deaf. My hearing is very good. Sometimes it's truly painful. Some sounds have become much stronger than they used to be. Also, new sounds have been added, from pressured air drills, and those kinds of things. I wouldn't have minded being a little deaf. "I hear what you're saying," I said, "but I don't see anything coming of it." Then he finally left. It was about time, or I might have lost my patience. I certainly have more patience than I used to. It must be the age. Old people have to endure much.

[Translation of Kjell Askildsen, "Carl", first published in Thomas F's siste nedtegnelser til almenheten by Torgeir Fjeld. Translated from the collection En plutselig frigjørende tanke, Oslo: Oktober, 1991, 185-187. A Sudden Liberating Thought available from http://www.amazon.com/ in Sverre Lyngstad's translation.]

* * *

People in Cafés
by Kjell Askildsen

One of Thomas F's last visits to a cafe was a summer Sunday. He remembers it well, because almost everybody was dressed casually, and he thought that perhaps it wasn't Sunday after all? And producing presicely this thought makes him remember it. He was seated by a table near the center of the room, surrounded by many people who were eating cakes and sandwiches, mostly by themselves. They seemed lonely, and since he hadn't spoken to anyone for a long time, he wanted to exchange at least a few words with someone. He considered how to proceed, but the more he studied the faces around him, the more difficult it seemed. It was as if everyone had lost their sight. The world had certainly made a depressing turn. But since he had gotten the idea into his head that it would be nice to have someone talking to him, he continued thinking about it, which was his only aid. After some time he realized what he had to do. He dropped his wallet on the floor, as if unawares. It was lying next to his chair, clearly in sight to those around him, and he observed several guests peeking down on it. He thought that one or two of them would have picked it up and give it to him – he was an old man – or at least yelled something like "You have dropped your wallet on the floor." How many disappointments one would have been spared if one only could cease hoping! Finally, after several minutes of peeking and waiting he pretended that he suddently discovered that he'd lost it. He didn't dare to wait any longer, afraid someone would grab the wallet and run off. It could be some money in it. Sometimes old people are not poor, they might even be rich. That's the way the world is. Those who plundered in their youth or in their best years are paid in their old age. That's what people at cafe have turned into. That's what he learned. We learn as long as we live – whatever that's supposed to mean – when we're about to die.

[Kjell Askildsen, "Mennesker på kafé", first published in Thomas F's siste nedtegnelser til almenheten. Reworked from the collection En plutselig frigjørende tanke, Oslo: Oktober, 1991, 191-192.]

* * *

The Anchor
by Kjell Askildsen

A few months ago the new landlord made a visit to Thomas F. He rang three times before Thomas F made it to the door, even though he walked as fast as he could. He didn't know it was the landlord. Visitors are so rare and almost all of them represent some religious cult asking if he's been saved. Thomas F derived some pleasure from it, but he would never let them in. People who believe in eternal life are not rational – one never knows what they might be up to. But this time it was the landlord. Thomas F had written over a year ago to notify him that the railing in the stairway was broken. Thomas F thought that was why the landlord came by, so he let him in. The landlord measured the flat with his eyes. "You live comfortably here," he said, and it was such a presumptious statement that Thomas F was put on his guard. "The railing is broken", Thomas F said. "Yes, I saw that. Is it you who've broken it?" "No, why me?" "You must be the only person who's using it. Apart from you it's only young people in this section, and it doesn't break by itself." He was obviously an unreasonable person, and Thomas F didn't want to enter into a discussion as to how and why things break, so he said quickly: "As you wish, but I need that railing and it is my right." The landlord didn't respond to that. On the contrary, he said that rent would increase by 20 per cent from next month. "Again," Thomas F said, "and by 20 per cent. That's quite a lot." "It should be more," the landlord said, "the building is running at a loss and I'm loosing money on it." It was long since Thomas F had stopped dicussing matters of economy with people who say they loose money on something they could get rid of – it must have been 30 years ago, so he didn't say anything. But the landlord didn't need a response to continue. He was the kind of person who could run by his own steam. He elaborated on how all his other buildings were also running at a loss. His speech was a misery to hear. He must be a very poor capitalist. But Thomas F didn't say anything, and finally the lament ended – it was about time. Instead he asked, apparently without any comprehensible reason, if Thomas F believed in god. Thomas F almost asked to which god he was referring, but settled with shaking his head. "But you must," the landlord said. So he had let one of them into his flat after all. He wasn't really surprised. It is common that people with much property believe in god. He didn't want to let the landlord have a go at another topic – he'd referred evangelists to the crack of the door once and for all, so he wouldn't let him go on. "So rent increases by 20 per cent," Thomas F said. "I think that's what you came to tell me." Resistance must have taken the landlord by surprise, because he opened and closed his mouth two times without a sound, and Thomas F imagined that that was highly unlikely behaviour for him. "And I hope you make sure the railing is fixed," Thomas F continued. The landlord's face turned red. "The railing, the railing," he said impatiently, "what a fuzz you're making of the railing." That was a dumb statement, Thomas F found, and was slightly stirred up. "But don't you see," he said, "that sometimes the railing is my only anchor in life." He immiediately regretted having said it. Precise statements should be directed to people of reason, otherwise it turns into a mess. And it was a mess. Thomas F can't remember exactly what the landlord said, but it was mostly about the next world. He ended up talking about standing on the grave's edge – he was referring to Thomas F, and then Thomas F got angry. "Now you must stop bothering me with your economy," Thomas F said, since that was really what it was all about. And when the landlord didn't leave immediately, Thomas F allowed himself to beat his cane in the floor. Then the landlord left. It was a relief. Thomas F felt happy and free for several minutes afterwards, and he remembers saying to himself, silently, of course: "Don't give up, Thomas, don't give up."

[Kjell Askildsen, "Holdepunktet", first published in Thomas F's siste nedtegnelser til almenheten. Reworked from the collection En plutselig frigjørende tanke, Oslo: Oktober, 1991, 196-198.]


* * *

Thomas
by Kjell Askildsen

I'm getting terribly old now. Soon it will be as difficult to write as it is to walk. I'm slow. I only get a few sentences down a day. A few days ago I fainted. So the end is getting closer. It was while I was solving a chess problem that I had a sudden sense of loss. It was as if life itself was coming to an end. It didn't hurt, but it was a somewhat unpleasant feeling. And then I must have fainted, because when I woke up, I had my head on the chess board. Kings and pawns lie scattered around. It was just the way I wanted to die. I guess it is too much to ask – to die without pain. If I would get sick and in grave pain and sense that the illness and the pains have come to stay, it would be good to have a friend to help me into the void. It's banned by the law, of course. Unfortunately, laws are conservative. So doctors will prolong the pains of a person, even when they know it's hopeless. It is called doctors' ethics. But nobody laughs. People in pain usually don't laugh. The world has no mercy. They say that during the great clean-up of the Soviet Union, those who had been sentenced to death would by killed by a shot it the neck on their way to death row. Suddently, without a warning. I find that to be a streak of humanity in the midst of all the misery. But the world screamed out: at least they should die face to face with the execution squad. Religious humanism is more than slightly cynical – oh, any humanism. But I awoke with my face among the chess pieces. Other than that, it was like waking up from an ordinary sleep. I didn't know what else to do than to put the pieces back in their places. But I couldn't concentrate on solving the puzzle. I was just about to move over to the window when the door rang. I won't answer, I thought. It's probably an evangelist who wants me to believe in eternal life. It's been many them lately. It is as if superstition has made an up-turn. But then it rang again, and I started to doubt. After all, they usually only ring once. So I shouted, "one moment," and went to open the door. It took a while. It was a boy. He sold tickets for the local school band's lottery. The prizes were an unintended mockery of old people – bike, backpack, soccer boots, and those kinds of things. But I didn't want to come across as discouraging, so I bought a ticket, even though I don't like brass music. But I had my wallet on top of the drawers, so I had to ask him to come inside, or else the wait would have been too long. He walked behind me. He'd probably never walked so slowly in his life. On our way inside, I shortened time by aking what instrument he played. "No, I don't know," he said. I thought that was a strange answer, but I assumed he was shy. I could have been his great grandfather, which might just have been the case. I know I have many great grandchildren, but I don't know any of them. "Does you legs hurt terribly?" he asked. "Oh no, they've just gotten terribly old," I answered. "Oh, ok," he said, probably relieved. We had reached the drawer and I gave him his money. Then I had a fit of sentimentality. I thought he had spent such an unreasonable amount of time to sell that one ticket, so I bought another one. "It isn't necessary," he said. Just then I had a severe spell of dizziness. The room started sailing about. I had to hold on to the drawer, and then I lost the open walled on the floor. "A chair," I said. When I got it, the boy started collecting the money that was scattered all over the floor. "Thanks, boy," I said. "You're welcome," he answered. He put the wallet on the drawer. He gave me a serious look and said: "Can you never go out?" And then I realized that I'd probably been outside for the last time. I can't take the chance of fainting out on the sidewalk. It would mean hospital or retirement home. "Not anymore," I answered. "Oh," he said, and the way he said it made me sentimental again. I've turned into an old fool. "What is your name?" I asked, and the answer only made things worse. "Thomas." I didn't want to say that I had the same name, of course, but I was put in a strange, almost solemn, mood. Oh, it's not so strange. The bells had just chimed for me, so to speak. Then I suddently got it into my head that I wanted to give something to this boy that would make him remember me. I know, I know, but I was somewhat put out. So I asked him to get the carved owl that was standing on the top of the book shelf. "You shall have it," I said, "it is even older than me." "Oh, no," he said, "why?" "For nothing, my boy, for nothing. And thank you so much for your help. Please lock the door behind you." "Thank you very much." I nodded to him. Then he left. He looked happy. But perhaps it was just a show. I've had many spells of dizziness since. But I've placed all my chair at strategic locations in the room. It makes the flat look sadly messy that way. It gives an almost uninhabited impression. But I'm still living here. Living and waiting.

[Kjell Askildsen, "Thomas", first published in Thomas F's siste nedtegnelser til almenheten. Translated from the collection En plutselig frigjørende tanke, Oslo: Oktober, 1991, 204-206. Available from as Kjell Askildsen, A Sudden Liberating Thought, translated by Sverre Lyngstad, Dufour Editions, 1994, for a meager $24.]

* * *

The Fiddle in the Wild Forest, part I
by Hans E. Kinck

Suddently they heard an ugly howl; it came from below the lakes.

The sixteen-seventeen year old son Torstein slipped out of the living room, into the pitch-dark night. The wife, slim and bright, took to her belly and said "Jesus".

It was just before Christmas. Her husband came home to the mountain farm Vasslid from the parish; he often howled like this in the dark nights on his way home; ugliest when he'd stopped by the grocer's and had a drink, – but at other times, too.

She stood up from the spinning wheel, stood by the coal oven, though and shivered in fright: it was like taking a wild animal in her lap straight in from the wild forest when he came home like this... This large man, hair and beard black, and with black eyes hurling around in sharp glimpses.

His old mother, sitting white haired by the oven, looked up at his wife, – her eyes widened, and a strange bright light came over her wrinkly brown face from a distant fire. She still made a bait, and it was her who had spoiled the wife, people said, when she finally married the boy at Vasslid.

The son slid down the hill; he had to get out each time he heard his father howl, he couldn't rest before he'd done it. But this time something else bothered him, too. – Everything was black out here; the mountain was black, the air and the mountain side, and the long, broad forest below the lakes was black. He stopped by the barn and started to howl, as bad and sharp as he could. The he held his breath and listened to the silence that followed.

It answered from beyond Trollberg.

And Sella in the barn, the farm girl, sounded louder and louder; she was frightened, he thought.

The son came back uglier; the mountain threw it back badder.

'Cause he would teach his father to shut up, – he came home ever so often, frightening Sella and frightened his pale mother! ...

Uglier and uglier came the howls between father and son. The pitch darkness, the forest, everything around them was filled with ghosts and monsters; it sparkled from eyes, it padded from paws.

And the hook of the barn door came on; she sounded more quiet in there. She was frightened in another way as well; – his father had been there at least a couple of times already, when he came home at night, she complained.

He howled, as ugly as he could: ho, tonight he wouldn't stop for long down by the barn door! He would be so scared that he would be glad he made it inside the house. He should go home – he was married, the old man! ...

Time and again he howled; but now only the mountain answered. His father was silent; he probably approached from below Trollberg now, – and there the ghosts were, so he probably kept his mouth shut.

The son was quiet, too, listening to the winds of the forest, to the rivers running around him, angry and large after the last bout of bad weather; ... listened for Sella, who stood dead quiet at the barn floor. –

His father breathed over the mound, and slid past him in the dark; he moved swiftly tonight. There, someone took the barn door; it was closed from the inside. He knocked once. Sella didn't move. One more time.

Then he slid back and past him up to the main building.

His son heard him tuble around in the hallway up there; heard his strong voice; saw the uneasiness of the candle. He filled the living room entering like that, sweeping with him all the monsters of the forest until every corner moved and grinned and mother and son lay frightened all night long. He never hit them; only clamped around in large boots, breathing heavily.

Torstein shivered; he knocked on the barn door. She opened.

– Have you got the milk? he whispered.

– Yes!

– Hurry up, then!

And she hurried up to the main building with the milk while he sat on the barn stool in the pitch darkness, waiting.

She was quick; – she'd just put the milk inside the door and hadn't strained it, she said. – He took her fur light, got the fiddle that was hidden under the rafter out in the hay barn. He had traded it for a sheep he'd told his father had gotten lost in the mountains.

He didn't utter a word when she came back, just nipped the strings and listened, put it between his knees and bent over; bent more and more, until his overgrown carcass was shaped like an arch. She watched his narrow neck carressing the fiddle with his black haired head.

The cows moved their ears, listened and shook their horns.

Someone opened the door up there. An ugly howl to the forest. Sella put her hand on the hook of the door and pushed it down. Torstein stroked the strings once; his soft-lipped, broad mouth squeezed shut. An uncontainable fire sparkled behind his dark, dark brown eyes. It was his father’s stare. But the skin of his face was fair – it was his mother's.

It howled again, closer this time.

– Jesus! Sella said and lifted her lids, which lay half way down her large gray- yellow eyes.

Then something slid past the door, breathing; Torstein paused the bow and stared at her. Then it passed, padding up the hill. Sella let go of the hook.

Torstein sat down on the stool, striking the strings heavily. He stomped so the barn floor shook; the bow travelled faster and faster. It was as if a waterfall poured down with everything of the world and the strings couldn't quite hold all the sounds.

– You're frightful tonight, Torstein! Sella said, – the flame in his eyes was shining straight on her.

He didn't listen.

He didn't know what he played. It wasn't any of the country songs he'd learned; he played of people on long journeys, played of broad, sunny villages in summer weather; he played of large steam boats in frothed chase on a shining sea, of the foam of broken waves at the outermost rocks; he played of tall, enormous churches with the sun baking quietly on a wall painted white...

– You sparkle, Torstein! she said, shielding her eyes.

He jumped up, wrapped his arms around her.

– Well, do you want me then! he cried and squeezed.

She fought him:

– Oh! You frighten me, Torstein!

– Well, do you want me, then!

– Oh... be careful, then!

He let her go, sat down, made loving strokes with the bow. He bent more and more sharply over the fiddle; she squatted in front of him and looked at his face. It almost disappeared in the weak glow of the fur light, which was almost out.

...Soft tones, curling and sweeping the fiddle's body until it was shaking and shivering roughly in there, from below them, sliding futher away. It was like frost being dressed and warmed up. He lay over the fiddle, then he accompanied slowly:

Oh, the fiddle sang in the wild forest,
Yes, the fiddle sang.
And noone heard and noone saw
And noone cried and noone smiled,
No, noone cried.
Oh, the fiddle sang in the wild forest
Yes, the fiddle sang

His hands searched for his knees, to find the fiddle box.

– Oh, yes, the fiddle sang! he whispered again, dropping the fiddle. He grabbed her hands, pulled her shivering to him and over to a pile of dry leaves in the corner of the barn.

The candle in the fur light made a last breath. It rustled in the heap of leaves. The bell cow lowed slowly, intrigued.

Someone opened the house door again. An ugly howl to the forest.

Torstein jumped up, fumbled through the darkness and found his fiddle.

Sella after, holding him, begging:

– Oh, Torstein! ... Torstein –! Don't you want me, then!

He didn't answer, flung the hook open, rushed out, and stroke the strings heavily. This thing inside him would find its way after all: His madness would have to live! ...

She followed him across the mound. His father howled at the courtyard.

The strokes more heavy on the strings. He played of different things now: of long lakes at dark, stormy seas, of dead wilderness in the fall without a path, of deep canyons in the wild mountain, of dark nights in the forest...

She tore at him, wanted him out of it. She knew the wild whistle from the fiddle, taking him away from her.

– Torstein, don't you want me, then!

He didn't answer, but kept playing.

It didn't do with these strings anymore. What he saw tore the fiddle out of his hands. He threw it agains a pile of rocks, making it sing and break. Long moans and strings breaking! He heard it dance down the mound. He saw how keenly it flew away in the dark, as if caught in a fire, discharging trolls and witches – they snook under pine roots, hid in heaps of rocks – ugly, strange, soft bodies. And then – pitch dark silence.

He laughed ugly.

– So you don't want me, then! she said softly, letting him go.

He didn't give an answer, only drew his breath heavily. He saw a long, quiet glow over the pine forest, – and inside there were broad, green villages bathed in sun, and grand cities with house upon house.

– We shouldn't have done this, then! she whispered.

– No. No. But only then could I feel how frightened you were, he answered quietly, disappearing in the darkness towards the house.

She walked past the heap of rocks, felt along the mound and found the fiddle. –

But the next day Torstein ran off to the village and took the steamboat to town. He had to get out there to see what it was in the glow over the long, wide forest.

* * *

The Fiddle in the Wild Forest, part II
by Hans E. Kinck

He was away for 15 years, having been far and away, and a jack of many trades. He started as a driver in the city, and went on to be an apprentice with a band – he beat the drums.

For a while he travelled the Eastern vallies with an accordion, in the company of a vagrant wiman, who played the triangle and sang. Lately he'd spent most of his time in the Northern country, participating in the winter and summer fishing.

He'd seen big cities where armies played under tall trees, and coffin dressed people drifting around, and broad villages, without a ray of sunlight. He had seen foam at the outermost rocks and long waves drifting towards the ocean without means or ends.

But everything was different now than it was under the glow past the wide, long forest.

It was a sound to everything he saw, a whistle so strong it went too far. He couldn't follow. It was like the time home at Vasslid before he had the fiddle, – when he was inside during winter nights listening to the storm from the North throwing itself around the house from the mountains, or when he lay in the sunny hills on Sundays, staring along the carpet of pine tree tops or along the flower covered mound. What he was felt was a knock in his soul, wanting to come along outside, wanting to whistle and fill the forests. A whistle came from him instead, so he couldn't feel what he saw. And again he was back on the ground, bored and empty. – That's the state of what he'd seen the last 15 years. It was like at Vasslid before he'd gotten the fiddle. –

Then one day in the Northern country he heard his father had died, and that his mother considered selling the farm. He travelled south on the first fishing boat. He had to get back to Vasslid, because it only paled him, this flight of the mind that was always, always going further. He knew it now. It wasn't a fiddle big enough in the whole world to carry what he felt inside – further...

His mother moved down to her family. Torstein wanted to be alone in the mountains in winter. He's start over again, howl ugly to the wild forest, see the monsters' eyes shine in piled up rocks and under pine roots.

*

A dark night in fall he lit up the barn with his light, figuring out if the hay would last. Under the rafter he saw something that was gray with hay dust and spider webs.

It was the fiddle.

Recollections ran through him as tingling shivers. He recalled that fall night when he played Sella away from him. He was startled, weighed the fiddle with his hands, thinking.

Then he shook it off and walked quickly to the barn. No, women wouldn't be allowed on this farm! People in general weren't worth much, those he'd seen, – but least of all women, because either they were frightened of him, or else they were just a piece of wild meat shivering for his embrace and no though for anything else. No, he wouldn't have women on the farm! So he took care of the cattle himself...

But the strings seem to have gotten back on the fiddle. He realized it – and a long, warm stream flowed into his mind: Sella had found it down by the piled up rocks then, – and she had put the strings on it, – and she had stuck it under the rafter, 'cause it was only she who knew where it belonged.

He plucked the strings, felt the fiddle's body over and over again, caressed it, sat down on the barn stool. He tuned it. The sound was fractured, the body was cracked. A yellow ribbon was tied around it, holding it together. But he swore to himself: Women would not be allowed on this farm! ...

He stroked lightly with his bow.

Something was released inside him. Things started floating in a thousand blinking brooks; he saw blooming mounds of grass in humming games of bumblebees; he saw shimmering sun on bays blown blue; saw steaming dew among the swaying white cotton grass. He closed his eyes and saw the finest and softest things of the world.

It increased; it plunged: Now it was brown fall at the grass mound, breaking ocean waves entering the bay, a flurry of snow on icy mountain marshes...

The cattle twisted in the barn to see, shook their horns, and the bell cow made a long, inquisitive low.

The door opened quietly; beings scurried from the dark fall night, one being after another – hairy, frozen beasts, filling the barn with shivers from solitary mountains.

It was a voice in the darkness; he listened.

Oh, the fiddle sang in the wild forest,
Yes, the fiddle sang.

it said.

He raised his eyelids and peeked carefully outside; in the glow of the light a pale girl's face peered in.

And someone cried and someone smiled,
Yes, someone cried,

it said again and came further in.

The torrent over the strings slowed down. Something sucking and wild in her eyes out there overtook him, a strange far-sighted longing, like a winter's sun in a frosty forest, – paralyzed the fingers that held the bow.

He knew that people said that Sella-girl hadn't been right the last couple of years; she could run off to the forest from her masters in the dark night and only return in the dark of night.

She slid onto the barn floor, watching him.

– Should I help you with the milk? she said.

– You'd better do as you'd like, he said.

He words were cries scraping like needles through his whole mind.

She grabbed the bucket and squatted under a cow. He stared in her direction without looking at her, listened to the sound. Playful splashes of milk against the bucket bottom; then the cuddly embrace in a foamy depth... And the fiddle silently followed the sound.

After a while she took the bucket and the light without a word; he saw that she was done; got up and joined her.

– You'd better restrain yourself, Tostein! she said in the darkness outside; it was as if everything they should say dared to come out here.

– But I'm not fit for it, he said.

– Otherwise you might play yourself away, – away from yourself.

– Would you hide it, then?

She didn't answer, but took the fiddle box and the bow. –

Torstein and Sella's marriage was proclaimed three Sundays in a row. They were married in early winter.

And the winter days at Vasslid were bright as a softly shimmering mountain sun in small windows. One day slid past after the other, and months slid past. Year by year slid past, quietly, like her chest's sleepy breath, rich as the shelter from warm sheets.

* * *

The Fiddle in the Wild Forest, part III
by Hans E. Kinck

But then, one winter’s day four years later, a group a hobos came by the farm on their way to the next village across the mountains.

They pleaded, played accordion and sang. Sella went in and out of the house, found food and feared. But Torstein remained seated on the side of his bed in the living-room with them, listened to their talk and smiled strangely. It was as if the living-room was filled with the sun flicking in wide villages and the clatter of wagons in grand cities. Their eyes shone with mirrors of rich places.

They’d brought a deck of cards, and they read them. And the girl who sang looked like the one he’d travelled with along the eastern valleys many years ago. The same black hair, the same quick glances, the same cat-like twist to her body.

He sat on the bed-side for a long time after they left for the next village. He listened with a stiff smile. For it was that girl he’d travelled with in the east.

When darkness fell he started drifting in and out of the doors. Sometimes he would stop and stare straight through the wall. It was as if he heard something in the wind from the North, something chirping coldly around the house.

Sella gave him a quick glance from time to time. She’d never known he looked so much like his father. – The restless flicker of his black eyes increased, gained speed, looking for something far away.

She was frightened when they went to bed. His eyes were like desolate mountain lakes, his black beard like tangled bramble bushes and stiff straws of grass from below Trollberg. His breath was like a gust of marsh and darkness.

She dared not blow out the candle in the bottle. She lie awake, waiting in fear. This wildness would come out one day! ...

He knew it from the look in her eyes. It was his mother’s eyes when his father came home. They looked in fear for something to rest on. That stare told him somehow who he was. And it struck him so he couldn’t control himself. He ran out of bed.

– Where d’you hide it, then? he said. He said it in a low voice, but it still sounded like a storm over wild marshes.

– In the chest! she said, dared not otherwise.

He rushed up to the attic to find her chest and rummaged inside for the fiddle box. It was wrapped in a scarf. Then he barged down, stormed in and drew heavy on the strings so that it filled the living-room.

– Jesus! she said.

He played everything the hobos saw, roaming freely around the world, through bright valleys and in noisy cities. It grew to a whistling storm through the strings of the broken fiddle.

She turned in bed: Oh, Tostein! You’d better get a hold on yourself, Tostein!

He didn’t listen. He stomped the beat harder and harder, until the floor rocked like waves. Sometimes he groaned heavily. And she moan under the covers.

Suddently he got up, let out a wild roar and threw the fiddle at the wall so the scarf around if broke and the body shattered. He stomped on it and barged out.

At the courtyard he howled ugly to the mountains where the road led to the next village. Sella squirmed in the living-room, praying for her husband: well, Jesus, this was his father through and through! ...

He drifted along the mound. He didn’t know where – only away! And he couldn’t get far enough! ... He didn’t feel the sting of the Northern wind – even though he only wore underwear – as it swept down the hill with large grains of snow.

Over and over he howled ugly to the forest.

It whisteled through the pine forest, it murmured through the leaves, flickered in eyes, –flickers of lights from wide villages and grand cities, and of great sheets of sea turning in golden sun...

He didn’t know where he was, didn’t know anything when he sat down in the snow. –

Sella whimpered and prayed in the living-room. She heard the howls slide further away – the storm from north was as strong around the house now. The she leaped out of bed, out on the staircase and screamed “Tostein” with her weak voice that her fear had almost strangled. She didn’t stop screaming – but no answer.

She went back inside, put on some clothes, and grabbed the light. Then out to wade in piles of snow all night.

Under Trollberg she found her husband, frozen stiff, with snow in his black beard. Daybreak came when she found him. She kept staring at him. Her anger grew and widened until her chest was too small. But then it gradually froze. She didn’t make a sigh when she grabbed him under his arms to drag him home. The northern wind had reached into her very heart.

And the song from grained snow rattled along the plain, started to form waves. Now she saw what she hadn’t seen for an entire life: She hadn’t been able to catch the beast in him! ... It was like a whistle from many strings over a broken fiddle’s body – the same tune he’d made and played while he lived:

Oh, the fiddle sang in the wild forest,
Yes, the fiddle sang.
And noone heard and noone saw
And noone cried and noone smiled,
No, noone cried.
Oh, the fiddle sang in the wild forest
Yes, the fiddle sang

[Translation of Hans E. Kinck, "Felen i ville skogen," Noveller og essays, ed. Edvard Beyer, Oslo: Aschehoug, 1976, pp. 7-11.]

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