Kredittgjeld? This will save you thousands of true facts from your own family and his hometown, Finland is back again in more Gauta Heivolls novels. But never
Kredittgjeld? This will save you thousands of true facts from your own family and his hometown, Finland is back again in more Gauta Heivolls novels. But never before had he written in such a personal way as in the novel “The Dream of the Living”. It is based on his father’s sons and ungdomsåra, and a bit on himself.
“It’s both an oppvekstskildring and an attempt to write a whole world, with many different people. It’s very much based on my father, and this is the first time I’ve written about him so extensively, but I always thought she would. . again.
Read an excerpt from Heivoll’s upcoming novel for more time on the case.
his father died when Heivoll was 19 years old and he published his first poems in dødsannonsen, a poem he wrote while sitting at his father’s hospital bedside.
He never experienced that I was the author, but he doubted it, says Heivoll.
– There is no depressing book
The episode depicted in the extract from the sommerbok is not something he experienced himself. But it can be related to the embarrassment the main character feels when he shows the first text of him.
– It’s embarrassing to write. It will always be so, I think. There is an ambiguity in feeling that what you have done is terrible and unpleasant and at the same time fantastic. This time it’s also a shame because I’m writing about very delicate things, whether it’s about a part of my father’s life that was very scandalous.
When his father was in his early twenties, he was admitted to a mental hospital for depression.
– This is a novel about a life that did not go as you expected or thought, but it is not a depressing book. It was fun writing it,” says Heivoll.
He describes his father as an artist, who was good at school and had good conditions, but that may not have led him to make the right decisions for him. After fhs and befalskole, he ended up who was also a successor as a lumberjack in Finland, just like Heivolls’ grandfather.
– We grew up in the same small town and it was completely obvious to me that I should move to Oslo at the age of 19. It was probably completely unheard of for him – says Heivoll.
The father was only 23 when he was accepted, the same age as Heivoll himself when he made his debut as a writer. He thought about it a lot,” he says.
It revolutionized the language of modernity – Psychiatry is a shame
his father did not have a serious diagnosis, it was enough that he could not work a regular job. Heivoll points out that she only has fond memories of his father, but says that she always felt there was something about him that set him apart from other parents. If his father was a psychiatric patient, he first knew about children his age.
That says something about how much people talked. A psychiatrist once told me that once you go into psychiatry, you never forget it. If you broke your arm, you forget about it after a few months, but psychiatry is written on your forehead, because for the rest of your life. In a small place in that Finland, it was probably something that the whole town knew, except me. It was so embarrassing,” says Heivoll, who believes psychiatry is still embarrassing for many, perhaps especially men.
– And now I’m writing a whole novel about it and publishing it for the whole world! At the same time, I don’t think there’s anything shameful about taking it lightly. Instead, I write to give my father dignity,” she says.
Read an excerpt from “The Dream of the Living” here:
One afternoon he goes down to the kitchen with a sheet of paper in his hand. The mother stands at the kitchen table and bakes bread dough. She has flour in her hair, smiles and dries her hands when she sees it.
– You come?
– If he responds.
Did you ask yourself something?
– He doesn’t answer.
He stands and watches her as she reaches into the dough and divides it into four threads, as she kneels and pushes herself into the brødformene, and soon she has to say something, because soon she will look up and see all that is there. the time. outside and inside.
I wrote a song,” he says. – Will you listen to her?
Reading one’s own newly written poems is like being in the depths with eels and drowned children, and the dead Nils Skolemester, like finger scrapers under a boat. Reading your own poems is like being a crazy old woman with a köfte, swimming the other way just to win.
He doesn’t forget his eyes.
– Where did you get this? ask your mother.
– Is a song.
– Yes but where are you from? How did you come up with that? Welcome, not alone?
the poem called The loneliness of life is on the verge and was conceived in joy and shame in utedassen, and it seems perhaps in it, his mother seems sad and melancholy a few hours later, she takes the loaves out of the oven, they are warm until evening, and perhaps they are disgusted by your attitude towards him.
He decided to send the poem Fædrelandsvennens to the barnesider, even if the mother wished to be more and sniff the potatoes, because she thought the poem was good. The loneliness of life is similar to a real poem, of which there are several in Egner’s lesebok, but none like his. He writes the final version in his best handwriting, as Alma taught him, and probably in similar handwriting to John Mail’s. He then goes to the utedassen.
He receives no response from the newspapers before the poem suddenly appears in print one day in early December, under the heading Rincón de Sócrates. Socrates is a kind of well-read kålormen with glasses and a pen in his hand, and just below the kålormen is his poem with his full name, and it looks like it was written by a real poet.
Angry for the corona happy family.
A day when he is not himself.
He believes that everyone had to see it, everyone had to read it. Mass in the store. Gerda and Gertrude Dynestøl, Alma and Conrad, and Pastor Absalon, Cat-Lars and the Portuguese Emperor. Everyone must have read La solitude de la vida, and although he is a poet, although he is only twelve years old.
at night, that danger comes wet and cold from the forest, he takes his mother to the newspaper and puts the page with the poem and kålormen on the table in front of him.
– Look here, he says and hits the newspaper with his fingers. – How about this?
his father washed under the kitchen springen for a long time, it smells good, like soap and pine needles and a clean shirt, but your hands are dirty. He is tired and silent, the forest has made him grumpy and aggressive because the forest demands more than he thought it should give, and the last thing he could imagine after a long day with the horse and the saw is reading Fædrelandsvennens barneside.
– What’s that? he says.
A song, answers the mother.
– Yes, I see, he answers bitterly.
– But then you won’t see anymore?
– Is it more than a song?
– Look who wrote it then!
The father peels the steaming potatoes, adds the skin to the pile at the side of the plate, tends to the blodpuddingen, and eats while the strøsukkeret crunches between your teeth. After that, he travels, goes to the sink and washes his hands, but he only washes them before going to the table. So he looks out the window. He stays a long time with my nose in the box, like a glass finder, and he can’t see anything but his own tired eyes and bearded cheeks.
– Yes, yes, it’s true, he says. -I think she’s going to snow until nightfall.
You should wish then that his father had said something, he likes all of Ibsen’s Peer Gynt and knows what the correct setting will be, and what distinguishes a real poem from something you just found, but all night the paper comes with the poem in print. the coffee table, and that his father said nothing more to him. There are more important things. The father goes out into the shed after the next, adds a good one to the oven, controls the flame with his hand, falls asleep on the sofa and snores softly before the mother slams the oven door open again, so that the vedkubbene runs . and his father will advance under pleddet.
So he should want his father to say something, anything, just anything, but this silence can’t be used for anything, but he can’t ask that he can’t talk to his father about the poems he wrote that were printed in the newspaper so that everyone sees that you are naked.
There are more important things.
instead, suit up and marvel in the dark on the patio. It’s very strange to be standing there under a cloud of snow and knowing that you are something that no one knew about, that you wrote a poem, that you are a poet, and that you did it all by yourself. It’s amazing to stand among the first snøfillene and look through the stuevinduene and see my own father get up from the sofa and pick up the newspaper from the coffee table. It is marvelous to see his own father reading a poem you have written, without his face being clearly seen, and without hearing what his mother, who has come into the room and placed him behind, is saying.
seductive but imprecise
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Categories: Optical Illusion
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