Edvard Munch: Smertens blomst / Blossom of pain

This deeply existential piece of art can speak for itself. As an addition, though, you might read what the Munch museum in Oslo, Norway has to say about it on its webpage:

This motif was first used as the frontispiece for an issue of the German periodical Quickborn, with texts by August Strindberg and illustrations by Munch. The man bears Munch´s features, and is the closest one gets to an artistic credo in his work. Art is created from the lifeblood of the artist, like the beautiful flower which shoots up from the earth next to the suffering man.

Norsk:

Motivet ble først utformet som forside til et nummer av det tyske tidsskriftet Quickborn, med tekster av August Strindberg og illustrasjoner av Munch. Mannen bærer Munchs trekk, og er det nærmeste man kommer et kunstnerisk credo i hans verk. Kunstverket skapes av kunstnerens hjerteblod, lik den vakre blomsten som skyter opp fra jorden ved siden av den lidende mannen

Buckland Hall, Wales

This is where I will spend the next week, April 1st to 8th. Two times a year for a couple of years my husband and I have been here.

In this landscape, J.R.R Tolkien crafted parts of his Lord of the Rings-trilogy, and the trees, rivers, little roads, meadows and shrubbery tell the tale of hobbits. I wouldn't be at all surprised if a hobbit would come trotting down one of the rural roads, nor to find a hobbit's cave in one of the many green fields and copses around this venue. Many of the local names for places and rivers have obviously inspired Tolkien

You have the Buckleberrys (closely resembling the name of Buckland), Crick Hollow which most probably stems from the near Crickhowell, and many more that I have thought of before, though now I need a revisit to remember all of the striking resemblances of Welsh names and places to Tolkien's world of the hobbits. But names such as Talybont-on-Usk and Bagginshire surely had an inspirational effect og Tolkien's creative mind.

Well, there won't be any postings from me for at least a week - although probably no one ever reads this blog anyway, so...

A modern heroine revealed

I love this portrait of J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter's mom. The whole atmosphere seems to mirror perfectly some inner state of closeness and simplicity I recognize as essential when sitting down to write.

I remember reading Ms. Rowling's own reaction to this portrait (painted by Stuart Pearson Wright) as capturing her in paint more than she thought possible for someone not close to her. In my opinion, not even those close to you will often be able to portray you in such an illuminating way. They may be able to describe you in words, perhaps, or list the things you like to do, which authors you like, what music you listen to, which movies you choose to view over and over - but to capture something central about you in a flash like in a painting or a poem, very few are able to do.

That is why, when it finally happens in one way or another, I feel a sense of gratitude. Perhaps you might view this as a kind of vanity, of a want to be seen and understood, but really it is about recognizing truth and then conveying it. And to me this portrait reveals something essential about this woman's creative space, which resembles most artists' locus of creativity; a lonely but wonderfully rich and exciting place in one's psyche.

You must dare to be still, or no work of art will leave your hands.

(I happened to read this article today, showing that Rowling, the now deservedly successful author has hit lows to equal her present heights.)

We call this Friday Good

This amazing painting by Salvador Dalí tells us what this day is about. Good Friday - if you have grown up in a Christian culture, it is hard not to be touched by this most central story to our culture; The Passion of Christ. These still, silent days in my city (Oslo, Norway), are a perfect frame for the deep, grave sincerity of this story and what it has meant, and means, for our culture.

In these secular times, referring to Christ is often frowned upon here in my country, and in Scandinavia in general. But one does not have to be a Christian to be moved by this tale, by this destiny, by this stirring of the water whose ripplets founded a whole spiritual tradition that is most alive 2000 years after the man himself walked around, all flesh and blood - and light.

His act of compassion, his whole mindset and heartful understading of life, of Being, is what reverberates in this last tale from his earthly life that we know of.

The following stanzas stem from T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets, from the fourth section of the second quartet called "East Coker", and touch upon the Easter topos:

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

T.S. Eliot

Theme poem of my last week

The incomparable Emily Dickinson often strikes a chord that is perfectly in tune with my present mental and/or emotional whereabouts. Sometimes more so, as her verse deepens and refines a mental or emotional state, and gently steeres me into another landscape; wider, deeper, sharper and more vivid in colouring. She's been everywhere, she's seen it all, she's spelled it all.

She is a poet that never stops astonishing me with her imagery and her conceptual sharpness, innovativeness and elegant, poetic grandeur. There is nothing that can't be enveloped in that mind of hers and no new world or even universe of dimension that she can't unfold from the nooks of her imagination.

The following poem - one of her more famous, I am sure - is as good a witness of my sense of gloom, heaviness and depression as anything I have come across in literature. This landscape is familiar, though not the underlying tone of my life.

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading — treading — till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through —

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum —
Kept beating — beating — till I thought
My Mind was going numb —

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space — began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here —

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down —
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing — then —

- Emily Dickinson

Wallace Stevens: The Plain Sense of Things

The Plain Sense of Things

After the leaves have fallen, we return
To a plain sense of things. It is as if
We had come to an end of the imagination,
Inanimate in an inert savoir.

It is difficult even to choose the adjective
For this blank cold, this sadness without cause.
The great structure has become a minor house.
No turban walks across the lessened floors.

The greenhouse never so badly needed paint.
The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side.
A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition
In a repetitiousness of men and flies.

Yet the absence of the imagination had
Itself to be imagined. The great pond,
The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves,
Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence

Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see,
The great pond and its waste of the lilies, all this
Had to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge,
Required, as necessity requires.

Often you cannot explain why a poem strikes you the way it does. Some poems simply nail you and your experience of things and settles itself between thoughts and empty space. To me, this is one of them.

I recognize the vague and unexplicable feeling of sadness and sorrow, as well as a simplicity hard to articulate. There are certain images that strike me, like the disembodied turban floating across the floor, and the green pond in its it-ness and is-ness, just sitting there behind the letters and words, stating its existence as objectively and matter-of-factly as only reality can.

Of course, there are other dimensions to this poem, like Stevens' metapoetic statemens like "it is difficult even to choose the adjective" and "Yet the absence of the imagination had/ Itself to be imagined"

It's the simplicity of the whole thing that strikes me so, I think. We can all recognize the simplicity and sorrow weighing beneath the words, the real reality so to speak. Nature in its merciless objectivity. Quite a feat, I think, for such a short poem to incarnate that much.

Becoming Jane - still watching

Lately, this is a movie I have wanted to live in - Becoming Jane. Saw it twice in the theatres, and after having bought the dvd - who knows how many times.

The tone of the film is lively, but quiet, sparkly but with depth of emotion, witty and sincere.

Always the romantic - though the admirable James McAvoy plays a grand part in my frequent Becoming Jane-watchings. (He's not bad in Atonement either. You should take care and read the book, read Ian McEwan, he is a magician with words, shares his superb observations and insights in a clear, many-layered prose.)

One more pic?

Mary Oliver: The Swan

I learned about Mary Oliver from a participant in a wonderful invention called Diktringen (Norwegian word, being the name of a mailing list of daily poems and comments - all directed by one man; impressive!) a few days ago. She is probably well known in the States, but I had, as you understand, never heard of her.

I read a poem called Wild Geese then, and found myself curious to read more of her. Till now, I am not completely won over, but I liked the following poem. Mostly because of the last three lines.

The Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings
Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

Mary Oliver

I like the notion that insights and realizations of truth and beauty shall affect one's life. This is something I have experienced and therefore something know to be true - I don't have to believe it.

The times an insight flutters down on you or materializes like a lightning inside you are moments that stand out. To some extent I would say that they form one's life.

They have mine, anyway.

Fra en tapetblomstrete dagbok: Mann vs kvinne... igjen. Uff!

Fra en tapetblomstrete dagbok, en eller annen gang i 2006:

Vi trenger ikke flere tekster som lister opp forskjellene mellom mann og kvinne. Det foreligger alt for mye av den slags allerede, i diverse populærkulturelle trykksaker, som Dagbladet Fredag, Magasinet, det farlig usanne kulturkule ”Radioselskapet” på NRK P2, trendanalytikere, ungdomsmagasiner på TV, radio og i bladform – det er nok å ta av.

Problemet med disse opplistingene av forskjeller ligger i at det er en del sannhet i eksemplene vi får presentert, men at disse ”sannhetene” som regel er simplifisert, popularisert, noen anelser forvridd, og – tror jeg – lettere uklare for de som kommer med innsiktene. (I neste rekke følger selvfølgelig det faktum at mange lar seg påvirke, mer eller mindre bevisst, av hva som formidles i disse hva-er-forskjellene-på-mann-og-kvinne-spaltene, og tror at mye som sies der er sant.)

Hvorfor er dette noe å bry seg om? Underholdes vi ikke like mye hver gang vi blir presentert for dem? Det er noen underliggende, mentale mekanismer som gjør disse kvinne/mann-listene til noe mer enn ufarlig underholdning. (De ikke bare underbygger, men danner myter om hva som er spesifikt kvinnelig og hva som er spesifikt mannlig.)
Vi har lyst til å tro på kategoriseringene.
Vi har lyst til å tro at virkeligheten er så enkel at den kan grupperes i ”er” og ”er ikke”-bokser. Vi håper at det finne en objektiv sannhet om mann og kvinne, og at denne kan fanges og humoristisk formidles via slike observasjoner og oppstyltede grenser som presenteres i de respektive spalter. Vi håper altså at vi er inne på noe når vi grupperer og sorterer i så tilsynelatende åpenbart forskjellige kategorier som mann og kvinne utgjør.

Men det er for enkelt. Det er for uorganisk. Det er ikke sant.

Utgangspunktet for dette skriveriet er min egen følelse for forskjellene mellom det feminine og det maskuline, og hvordan dette kan komme til uttrykk i skrift. Disse to begrepene eller kvalitetene, maskulin og feminin, er ikke jevnt fordelt mellom mann og kvinne. Som regel er det overvekt av feminin kraft i kvinner og likeledes maskulin kraft i menn (det er vel derfor vi er blitt de kjønnene vi er blitt). Men disse størrelsene er ikke identiske med det menneske- og kjønnshylsteret vi er tildelt.

I denne iboende forskjellen mellom maskulin og feminin, mellom agerende, utadgående og ”aggressive”, og omsluttende, tøyelig og organisk inkluderende, ligger spiren som kan lede til popularisert oppdeling og gjerdesnekring. Forskjellene spikres fast, og her blir de stående, bastante og selvsikkert voktende sine grenser. Ikke særlig organisk eller levende? Heller ikke – for å bruke et ladet begrep – sant.

Slike mentale skillelinjer har lite å gjøre i den virkeligheten som faktisk er. Men, som sagt, noen sporer sannhet kan man finne i mann/kvinne-inndelinger.

Det som gjorde at jeg satte i gang å skrive om dette, er at jeg både kan føle og smake hvordan det seiglivede, snoende, svale ultrafeminine lett blir oversett og overkjørt av de mer velansette maskuline kvalitetene i vår verden. Kvinnelige forfattere (og jeg er oppmerksom på min egen bruk av apposisjon til substantivet ’forfatter’) snøftes gjerne bort om de heller mot å skrive for mye om kvinner, kvinners virkelighet, og spesielt kvinners hverdag (alt for kjedelig og betydningsløst for de fleste menn, og også en del kvinner) – dette kan jeg selv kjenne meg igjen i. Lenge tok jeg avstand fra denne ”type” litteratur (det er jo slett ingen type litteratur, felles er vel bare noen emner som blir tatt opp) fordi det virket for kjedelig og grått, alt for treigt til å bli satt mellom to permer og deretter lest av et publikum. Fremdeles er jeg ikke helt over den kneika, kanskje fordi jeg ikke tar meg tid til å lese så mange romaner som jeg kunne ønske; kanskje er det også fordi denne relativt ignorerte sjangeren ennå har til gode å fylles med solid, litterær kvalitet. På en eller annen måte.

Det samme gjelder imidlertid kvinnelige poeter. Gunvor Hofmo er vel anerkjent, men for en stor del ikke lest og analysert og seriøst omtalt som flere av våre mannlige poeter er det, slik som Stein Mehren, Olav H. Hauge, Tarjei Vesaas, Tor Ulven osv. Som menn får de automatisk en tyngde tillagt som det tar lang tid, mange lesere og mye seriøs omtale til for de fleste feminine poeter å bli til del. Det fins eksempler på kvinner som ikke skriver utpreget feminint, som for eksempel Inger Hagerup og den nylig debuterte Ruth Lillegraven. Disse får lettere eller raskere anerkjennelse enn mange av sine kvinnelige kolleger, for de beveger seg innenfor sfærer og i en type språk som er lettere å oppfatte og oppvurdere enn i mange av de kvinnelige poetenes tilfelle.

Jeg synes Gunvor Hofmo er et godt eksempel. Her har vi en forfatter som skriver om eksistensielle, religiøse spørsmål, virkelighetsloddende, innenfor en feminin uttrykksform. Her er inderlighet, mykhet, gjennomlyste farger, lys, luft, rom – alle kvaliteter som lett kan mentaliseres og resonneres bort til å skulle være mindre betydelig enn for eksempel Stein Mehrens mer intellektuelle uttrykksform. Det poetiske geni gjør nettopp slik som Hofmo gjør; beskriver, sanser, åpner, smyger seg fram til et unikt uttrykk, som igjen setter et unikt, dypt avtrykk i leserens sjel. Dersom man ikke overser den fine strengen disse feminine diktene kretser rundt.

Det er avgrunner i Hofmos poesi, dybder så bratte og sugende mørke at de ikke kan persiperes gjennom et mer ”nøytralt” tankebasert eller mentalt språk. Her er vi i et område hvor det vanlige vokabularet rett og slett ikke strekker til. Allikevel er formen gjennomsyret av feminin kraft (noe som etter min mening gir diktene enda mer gjennomslagskraft) og kan dermed lett overses og tolkes som over-inderlige eller halvveis hysteriske – Freud har ikke hjulpet kvinneheten i stor grad – og på den annen side for myke dikt, som er litt for brysomme og vanskelig tilegnede skriftstykker. Det er lettere å vende seg mot noe man forstår mer umiddelbart.

Det må nevnes, i denne sammenheng, at Jan Erik Vold er en ivrig og – det trenger knapt ytres – dyktig formidler av Hofmos geni.

© Tuva Langjord

Nåja, dette blir herved en avbrutt tanke, i det jeg skal ut på kino og se Becoming Jane, film om Jane Austen. Blir visst aldri ferdig med henne!

Radiohead: New Album Out Today!

Follow the link underneath, and you will be able to purchase or download Radiohead's new album. Not at all bad news.

http://www.inrainbows.com/Store/Quickindex.html

Hooray for porridge

I found this rather enjoyable article on the World Championship in porridge in today's Guardian on Guardian.co.uk.

For your information, Scottish porridge-lovers: Scotland isn't the only country in Europe where oats is coveted for its breakfast qualities; Norway (and I guess Sweden) have long utilized this exemplary grain for hot, sticky, but delicious breakfasts for more than a century - and probably longer!

Want to know the Norwegian word for porridge? It is 'grøt'.

Both the English and the Norwegian, I find, fulfill the respective languages' onomatopoetic possibilities.

Hooray, hooray for porridge.

Tomas Tranströmer: "Allegro"

ALLEGRO

Jag spelar Haydn efter en svart dag
och känner en enkel värme i händerna.

Tangenterna vill. Milda hammare slår.
Klangen är grön, livlig och stilla.

Klangen säger att friheten finns
och att någon inte ger kejsaren skatt.

Jag kör ner händerna i mina haydnfickor
och härmar en som ser lugnt på världen.

Jag hissar haydnflaggan - det betyder:
"Vi ger oss inte, men vill fred."

Musiken är ett glashus på sluttningen
där stenarna flyger, stenarna rullar.

Och stenarna rullar tvärs igenom
men varje ruta förblir hel.

Kanskje min favoritt av alle de gjennomskinnelige, alvejordiske diktene til Tranströmer.

Poem by David Whyte: "Faith"

FAITH

I want to write about faith,
about the way the moon rises
over cold snow, night after night,

faithful even as it fades from fullness,
slowly becoming that last curving and impossible
sliver of light before the final darkness.

But I have no faith myself
I refuse it even the smallest entry.

Let this then, my small poem,
like a new moon, slender and barely open,
be the first prayer that opens me to faith.


David Whyte

Litteraturhuset i Oslo

På denne merkelig varme høstdagen i oktober tok jeg meg en gåtur gjennom Slottsparken, opp forbi Kunsternes hus (et sted jeg ikke har særlig lyst til å besøke; sure vibber siver ut derfra) og til hjørnet av gata, i bygget til den gamle Lærerhøyskolen i Oslo for å nå mitt mål: det nye Litteraturhuset i Oslo.

Siden det er søndag i dag, og dag tre etter åpning, var det fullt av barnevogner og foreldre og folk fra alle trinn på aldersstigen, med summing av stemmer og mobiler overalt. I korthet: det krydde.

For meg var det for mange folk til å bli der lenge, så jeg svingte inn, kikket på forfatteres bokanbefalinger i butikken (som Norli vant konkurransen om å drive), sveipet ned i underetasjen og kikket raskt over boklandskapet. Butikken var ikke så stor, men har et desto mer håndplukket sortiment. Skjønnlitteratur delt inn etter geografi (heldigvis var svenske og danske bøker representert på egne språk), kunstbøker, tidsskrifter, bestselgere og kvalitetsbøker på hvite hyller. I første etasje er det også kafé, og det hele så riktig hyggelig ut. Hadde jeg vært mer i menneskehumør ville jeg sikkert satt meg ned og lyttet til hva de andre snakket om, drukket te og romenergi.

Som en elsker av alle bokfylte rom, virker et helt hus tilegnet bøker rimelig lokkende. Det siver atmosfære ut fra boksidene, og selve den fysiske boka danner en egen stemning, spesielt når det er mange av dem. Bokryggene, lukta - jeg kunne skrevet et helt kapittel i en imaginær roman om bibliotekenes lukt - og all tiden som er akkumulert i disse objektene, danner den spesielle stemingen. Aura, tror jeg jeg vil kalle det. Bøker har aura.

Jeg kommer nok til å få med meg noe av det som skjer der. Skulle gjerne vært på Toril Mois foredrag eller hva det nå var i går, men da var jeg på jobb - i bokbutikken...

Ellers er det alt for mye annet jeg burde gjort nå. Burde vært mer aktiv i forhold til pensum, men for tiden synes jeg det er skikkelig vanskelig å lese påtvunget litteratur; jeg finner meg selv til stadighet lesende noe annet enn det jeg bør i forhold til de oppsatte pensumverker. Men fanken heller, jeg liker bedre å følge den naturlige leselisten/-lysten enn bare å lese det jeg må lese i ett eller annet fag. Selv om jeg nå, i ukene fram mot november, må oppdatere meg mer på det oppsatte pensum. Sånn er det bare når man er student etter "Kvalitetsreformen" ved norske universiteter.

Det jeg har som en stjerne i enden av kikkerten, er at jeg endelig kan begynne å skrive på masteroppgaven i litteraturvitenskap ved Universitetet i Oslo etter jul. Det blir gøy. Endelig kan jeg operere selvstendig, forske i vei på det jeg er interessert i, sette mitt eget pensum. Et helt år med egendrevet lesing og skriving, det er da mye mer livsnært enn oppsatte leseplaner og innleveringer?

Tror jeg lar meg selv henge i lufta her. Det er ganske behagelig å sveve for enden av kikkerten, i stjerneopplyst vektløshet.

David Whyte: "The Well of Grief"

Hvis du er stille med deg selv når du begynner å lese dette diktet, vil det åpne seg bunner og brønner i deg du ikke visste du hadde. Sort, stille vann som bare venter på å bli oppdaget.

Jeg hørte diktet lest av forfatteren selv, fra CD, repetert på forskjellige måter, i en stor samling mennesker som åpnet seg og lyttet intenst stille sammen. Den sterkt svingende nord-engelske dialekten til forfatteren spiller med når jeg hører dette diktet, og slår an noen dype og gyllent klingende strenger. Våre forskjellige melodier vibrerer fram en kistedyp resonanskasse. Der er et mørke som skjuler og lover og hinter om våre uoppdagede rom.

De er mange.

THE WELL OF GRIEF

Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief

turning down to its black water
to the place that we can not breathe

will never know
the source from which we drink
the secret water cold and clear

nor find in the darkness
the small gold coins
thrown by those who wished for something else



~ David Whyte ~
Fra samlingen Where Many Rivers Meet, 1990

Hjertet mitt blir uendelig mykt, mørkt og stille hver gang jeg leser dette diktet. Sannhet har en tendens til å påvirke oss slik.

Du kan lese mer om David Whyte på hjemmesiden hans.

"Flower fascism"?

I read a rather interesting article today. Although set in a Norwegian newspaper, I am in no doubt that it has been reproduced from an English/British article (I think the Guardian). The subject was Diana and Diana's death, ten years ago to the day.


Interesting in many ways, what I find to be most interesting is how the British today feel embarrassed and mildly surprised at their emotional reaction to Diana's sudden death. What has made them this bewildered? It seems to me that their immediate emotional reaction, which didn't last only for a moment, but a whole week, was their real and natural way of responding to the premature death of a person the country as a whole had loved more than they, until then, had known.

No doubt this public movement of grief took many of the Brits aback. When did they ever show this much affection for a person very few really knew, other than through interviews and articles of various grades of sordidness in the press. A few dared name their uncomfortableness during the "Diana week" when grief swept the nation, but I dare say for many this grief was as real as the various actions bore witness.

Placing flowers in front of Kensington and Buckingham Palace (hence the term "Flower Fascism"), irately accusing and attacking members of the press for their supposed parttaking in Diana's death, the anger directed towards the rest of the Royal family for not showing any remorse or even sorrow in the sad affair -- was all this the expression of something the British peoplenow need feel ashamed about? And if "unnatural" to the British people; unnatural in what way -- and why?

For an outsider, this whole second thought-thing seems rather peculiar. More accurately; it seems like a reaction brought on by too much thinking, too much looking back and analysing, too little trusting their own reactions and subsequent actions.

To me, this illustrates the way we let our mental activity misdirect our natural ways of living. Anything can be analyzed to death.

I morgen vet vi alt om Harry Potter

I morgen kommer den, en bok som får flere års lesning, undring, spekulering, diskusjon og filosofering til å stilne. Med den siste Harry Potter-boka, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, får vi se hva Rowlings plott faktisk er.

Et av hennes sterkeste trekk er et solid, antakeligvis erfaringsbasert vett og vidd, hun staver fram leveregler som ikke er tenkt fram, de er sprunget ut av et virkelig liv. Det er selvsagt nødvendig med et godt hode for å trekke generelle regler/lover ut av erfaring, men det er det vel få som betviler at Rowling har. I grunnen tror jeg på at de aller fleste mennesker har et enormt potensiale, at enhver har uutgrunnelige sjelelige dybder -- men jeg har ikke like stor tro festet til hvordan den menneskelige mulighet forvaltes, utøves. Jeg blir stadig sjokkert over ny kriging, ny bestialitet osv, men er samtidig glad for å ha beholdt noe av min naivitet.

Men, her skulle det egentlig dreie seg om Potter. Det vil si Potter-plottet. Fram til nå er det ingen som faktisk vet hvor god historien er. Fram til nå har vi bare fulgt en rekke mysterier, fnist av humoren og kjent hvordan våre "moral fibres" styrkes gjennom lesningen av Potter-sagaen. Vi aner at det er et stort, klassisk oppgjør mellom ondt og godt som er i anmarsj, men vi vet ikke hvordan det utføres. Kanskje er det en vri på den klassiske lidelsesfortellingen, hvor Harry må ofre seg for at Voldemort skal dø, men så står opp igjen etter nåde fra naturlovene. Eller kanskje lærer Harry hvordan han skal overliste sitt negative avtrykk Voldemort, det vil si gjennomrisle Hr V med enkel godhet, noe som vil bli for skjørt og for sterkt for Voldemort, ettersom han har fortrengt og ødelagt alt av objektiv plussverdi i eget liv.


'Det enkle er det beste', er en av mange læresetninger man kan trekke ut av Potter-sagaen. Det er på ingen måte merkelig at en vanlig kvinne fra arbeiderklassebakgrunn i et av verdens største språksamfunn har slått så voldsomt igjennom klodelangs. Hun frisker opp vår etiske grunnstamme, den vi vet aldri råtner, den vi vet er den mest riktige og solide, og som vi aner har sin første sevje fra de tidligste mennesker. Bare det at vi er mennesker, gjør at en slik stamme er naturgitt. Vi vet at vi har muligheten til det gode og lyse, og at jo mer lys vi kaster, jo lengre og mørkere kan skyggene bli.

Det er så fundamentalt enkelt, det Rowling gjør, men det er hennes måte å gjøre det på, måten hun tvinner historien rundt dette åpenbare og i alle gjenkjennelige, som gjør at hun leses med så stor lyst over alt. Enkelt, med humor og vidd, og menneskelig varme - en trygg og riktig nærhet som vi alle kjenner igjen fra vi var barn og verden var overskuelig, lys og trygg.

Denne historien kommer nok til å få større betydning enn mange av dagens lesere tenker på. På overflaten er det jo først og fremst drivende god underholdning. Men for mange unge er det et par skritt inn i et solid fundamentert univers, en verden drevet av mørke og lyse sider, men hvor det er helt tydelig at det lønner seg -- sjelelig først og fremst, og for omverdenen i forlengelsen av det -- å holde seg til det gode. Gjennom Hermione ser vi også hvordan kunnskap er viktig, bare den brukes rett. Ingen kan nekte for at Voldemort antakeligvis er mer kunnskapsrik enn resten av de magiske menneskene (ettersom Dumbledore nå er død), men han har forkastet enhver mulighet til å kunne kalles vis. Han er komplett ignorant når det kommer til mange solide innsikter om rett og riktig som Harry Potter har innarbeidet i ryggmargen.

Når vi ser hvordan Rowling har drevet fram disse karakterene, hva de har stelt i stand av vemmelig-fascinerende ondt og hjertegjennomlysende godt, er det umulig at Voldemort kan overleve denne historien. Det er faktisk umulig. Fortellingens storhet står og faller på hvordan hun utformer Harrys skjebne. At han vil overvinne Voldemort er klart. Men hvordan? Hvem og hvor mange kommer til å ofre seg for at Voldemort dør? Hvor mange av de Harry har gjennomlyst med sitt relativt rene hjerte har latt seg virkelig gjennomlyse, til den grad at de kommer til å ofre seg for at verden skal bli et bedre sted?

Avslutningen vil vise hvor stor tro J.K. Rowling har på at verden kan bli et bedre sted.

Og jeg? Jeg har stor tro på at hun tror den kan bli mye bedre, med mennesker som bryr seg om det gode i dem selv -- og dermed andre!

(Hvis du vil se hva jeg har skrevet om Rowling og Potter-bøkene før, se her.)

Emily Dickinsons blikk

Det er umulig å se på det ene bildet vi kjenner av Emily Dickinson uten å bli slått av blikket hennes. Jeg har lest tolkninger av det som sier at hun ser sjenert ut, forlegen, sky, tilbaketrukket. Da trekker man virkelig bare det man vet om livet hennes inn i fortolkningen.

Hvem kan se på dette fotografiet uten å se hvor direkte, hvor nådeløst og hvor brennende rakt hun blikker inn i virkeligheten? Hun ser så direkte på det eksisterende at jeg føler kulløynene hennes bore seg inn i brystet mitt. Jeg tror hun ser mer i meg enn jeg selv gjør - foreløpig.

Uansett kan hun -- det vil si diktene hennes -- fungere som en katalysator for å trenge dypere ned i materien. På enhver av materiens plan.


(PS - om du lurer på hvordan hun kikker ut på oss, kan du se henne i margen på denne siden - litt lenger ned og til venstre.)

Erling Sandmo om Mozart

Kan det sies bedre?

"Virkningen av en virkelig god Mozart-fremførelse vil typisk være at det der, det kunne jeg også skrevet. Men det kunne du ikke gjort. For det du kjenner igjen i Mozarts klaverkonserter er ikke dine egne ferdigheter, men dine drømmer. Når du sitter der etterpå, lett og forløst, og tenker at det der var som om du skulle gjort det selv, da har musikken lurt deg til å tro nettopp det: Den har fått deg til å tro at drømmer kan bli virkelighet, fordi du har fått høre det du skulle ønske at du kunne, det du drømmer om å gjøre. Der annen musikk kan skape merkelige musikalske illusjoner, gir Mozart lytteren illusjoner om seg selv, hun kan kjenne seg overlegen, kanskje bedre enn musikken, løftet ut av den. For der andre komponister bryter musikkens lover, skaper Mozart musikk av drømmerens eget, skjulte reglement."

(Erling Sandmo, Hør, s. 195.)

Gunnar Ekelöf: Poetik

Dette diktet kan i grunnen tale for seg selv, det er en dikters syn på hva et dikt er - og så sant som noe annet jeg har sett skrevet om dikt.



POETIK


Det är till tystnaden du skall lyssna
tystnaden bakom apostroferingar, allusioner
tystnaden i retoriken
eller i det så kallade formellt fulländade
Detta är sökandet efter ett meningslöst
i det meningsfulla
och omvänt

Och allt vad jag så konstfullt söker dikta
är kontrastvis någonting konstlöst
och hela fyllnaden tom
Vad jag har skrivit
är skrivet mellan raderna

Äppelkriget!

This morning I had a most pleasant phone call - my mother called me to tell me that she had finally been able to lay her hands on this incredibly funny, imaginative and profoundly Nordic-comic movie -- Äppelkriget! (Meaning: The Apple War...)

This movie, invented&directed by the legendary Hasse Alfredsson and Tage Danielsson, is such a treat to the playful lover of absurd-melancholy-politically oriented-Northern mythology&superstition-inflicted works of art.

I have looked for this for ages, and it has been completely impossible to localise. Through one of my mother's many teacher friends, however, arrived my rescue.

Kjersti: Thanks a lot!

Gothic Air

There is something about the gothic style, the obvious reaching for something higher, that is really appealing to me.

The pillars, the high windows, all the air that fills these buildings, the magnificent space in other words, is speaking directly to something divine in me. It creates a really good feeling to move in a space that has room for all of you, even for your craving for the high sky.

The Life-long Quest

So. What makes you open up and unfold like a staircase flowing suddenly everywhere.

One way of meeting yourself is through mirroring. When someone you respect and feel is your equal makes you aware of certain bad habits or unnecessary patterns, it really causes you to wake up and view yourself in a brighter light, again causing you to search your seams and mend the patchy ones from the inside. At least that is how it is with me.

Where does one's strength, one's human erectness and immense existential density come from? From where does one's wish for unfolding towards an unknown truth stem? What nourishes your craving to continue developing, to continue unfold and step up the always&everywhere unfolding staircase?

A calling from your soul.

Something in our deepest nature drives us on. The want for truth, light and simplicity, for the sometimes unrevealed layers of existence is burning in us. With undying curiosity this life-long, more or less glowing crave eggs us on in our quest for truth.

Truth. How I long for it! And yet, something tells me that the searching is equally important as that of attaining it. (Probably you wouldn't have one without the other... But still.)

Which book are you?

This was a most amusing quiz I had to take: The Book Quiz! Just answer a few, not-hard questions, and your literary alter-id shows up.

And I have to say, this was a remarkably succinct result - quite to the point, actually - although I measure out my life in tea spoons, rather than coffee ones. You should try too!

So this is me:

You're Prufrock and Other Observations!

by T.S. Eliot

Though you are very short and often overshadowed, your voice is poetic
and lyrical. Dark and brooding, you see the world as a hopeless effort of people trying
to impress other people. Though you make reference to almost everything, you've really
heard enough about Michelangelo. You measure out your life with coffee spoons.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Recognizing yourself in another

I am currently reading this autobiography by a Hungarian woman who lived from 1897 - 1994. I have read about a quarter of the book, so naturally I cannot give you a full (re)view - but it gripped me instantly and glued me to the pages.

Why? It is all about recognition. It would be vanity to the extremes to say that I possess half of her insight and strong will to live and to explore everything in life, but still there are many points of recognition. Or rather, her thread through life is similar to much that I have seen and thought, but not believed strongly enough to carry out or stand up for. Whilst she always followed the voice within her that she knew was the truth, I have tended to adjust to my surroundings, wishing for peace more than complete truth.

In some respect I think that is an OK way to start life, as it allows you to be around people quietly, without too much strife. The down-side of this is of course that you might miss out on important battles for your own sake, battles for your truth (which most often turns out to be universal truths), that you give in to the habit of following other people's tune to keep the peace.

Well, this woman, Elisabeth Haich, certainly never gave in to such ideas. She seems to always have experienced directly what is true, and stayed with that. And acted accordingly. I rarely get inspired by what other people do or have done, but this woman is different. She is just revealing her truth throughout her life, and does not try to persuade you into anything. You can just read what she says and decide everything for yourself.

With me, it was recognition from the first sentence. Probably most people won't have that experience, and miss out on the depths of her words. But there is always someone or something speaking directly to you, you might just not have heard their voice yet.

Another beautiful poem by Jack Gilbert

When someone gave me a poem by Jack Gilbert in reply to a post I had some time ago, I thought it was so beautiful and simple that I had to purchase a couple of his books. A few weeks ago, they landed in my mailbox (thank heaven for Amazon), and yesterday I found some time to look at The Great Fires - a collection of Gilbert's poems from 1982 - 1992. I was not disappointed.

His words carry their own weight and balance on a thin line of golden warmth, melancholy wetness and the now and then icy shock of feeling the total emptiness a life can hold.

Overall the word 'simplicity' seems to suit his poems the best. He recognizes the thin wire of life and is holding on to it, by words.


So here goes:



HARM AND BOON IN THE MEETINGS


We think the fire eats the wood.
We are wrong. The wood reaches out
to the flame. The fire licks at
what the wood harbors, and the wood
gives itself away to that intimacy,
the manner in which we and the world
meet each new day. Harm and boon
in the meetings. As heart meets what
is not heart, the way the spirit
encounters the flesh and the mouth meets
the foreignness in another mouth. We stand
looking at the ruin of our garden
in the early dark of November, hearing crows
go over while the first snow shines coldly
everywhere. Grief makes the heart
apparent as much as sudden happiness can.

I can't control myself completely here, have to add another comment: This is one of many poems that reveals a certain Easternness with him. I am sure the Japanese and Chinese languages hold a shorter, simpler word for 'simplicity', and that their terms can be applied directly onto Gilbert's work. If anyone cunning in these languages should read this, please leave me a comment with some words or phrases that might suit this guy's "project".

(I suspect that his way with words is the Western way of expressing some simple truths many Eastern cultures&literatures have known and shown for years - the haikus as one example.)

Wake-up Call

I think some of the most important tasks for mankind today is to delve into themselves in order to know who you are so that you cannot be tricked or hoodwinked to believe what others may want you to believe -- like staying alert and not being blinded by the mass media, TV programmes, commercials and other propagandic offspring.

The critical, awakened mind is pivotal to the individual's staying exactly that -- an individual. Every society needs its alert and independent people. If we all took what our leaders say for granted, 1984 would soon be upon us.

What do you say to the constructed dicotomies in the US, for example. How "real" is the world view that G.W. Bush presents? How many people actually believe in the "axis of evil", in the compartmentalizing of people into either being good or evil? How many actually think that this is our reality?

The same goes for all kinds of commercial behaviour. Through ads and commercials in every shape&form imaginable, needs are created in people. The need to buy a certain kind of product, itself produced to "fill a gap" in people's lives; "gaps" they never thought they had. Movies, TV series and books produced - not necessarily with the awake intention of doing so - to dull people's minds, to lull them into a technicolour dreamworld; to create an ILLUSION in which we are supposed to LIVE.

I believe people can think for themselves, but that many persons of today are too lazy, or too used to be living in an overly commercialized society to recognize in just how many ways we are heading towards the Orwellian 1984-scenario.

The world-wide "War on Terrorism" for example. This global, black-and-white war is alarmingly stupid, alarmingly lethal, and gaining an alarmingly lot of support in the public here in the West. What might this turn into? Perhaps a West vs East/Orient war? Is this wholly unthinkable? Isn't this the dicotomized world a certain president Bush is trying to make us believe is going to happen, if "we" won't attack "the others" first? Is this not what we are supposed to believe? And is this not the reason why many people will agree to set aside their individual and constitutional rights, and let their leaders equally set aside their nation's constitution in order to protect them against "terrorist attacks"?

Well, the military state might not be as dead as we thought it was.

The Annotated Pride and Prejudice

I bought this copy of the annotated version of Pride and Prejudice this Saturday. I have read the book several times, but this version with commentaries is so satisfyingly fat and with delicate colours (nicer than the picture shows, and with a smooth, yet textureful surface) that I just had to have it. 5 - 6 comments on each page gives you a more profound knowledge of Jane Austen's own times than by just reading the text.

It is interesting to see how words and phrases have twisted just a notch and today having a sligtly different meaning than back then. As English is not my first language, this is particularly helpful and makes me learn a lot. At the same time, not being a native English speaker, I notice that I am more open to what words might mean, and tend to bend the phrases to what they are supposed to mean. Also, being a Norwegian, I can easily see how many of the words in English stem from the Nordic languages - old Norse, as it is called. Even the syntax of old English resembles our syntax more than the modern English. So being an outsider can be quite helpful in some ways.

Every foreign language will always lead to discoveries. That is what makes it so interesting studying other languages. And I have to say, English is one of my favourites. It is flowing and musical and soft. My major lingua-love might be Latin. There is something so satisfying about that almost mathematical, seamless language. I wish I knew Greek, and Sanskrit, and I would really like to be able to read Chinese and Japanese ---

Well. That's never going to happen. But still...

I am such a dreamer.

My English Dream

For a long time I nurtured a dream of studying at Cambridge or Oxford University in England. From the age of 14, I believe, I really wanted to go there and study literature.


I mean, look at this place:
How could you not want to walk amongst those stony streets, breathing the learned gusts of ancient stone and dusty books?

My sad story is that I never quite believed that I could do it. My English would have to need a serious brushing up. I would have to read a lot more books (even though I love reading, there are SO many books I haven't read, and I am afraid my list of read books aren't quite up to scratch as to what is required in these institutions). The unconscious mantra I have nurtured sounds something as follows: "I am just a Norwegian girl, a tiny dot on this planet, how am I ever to rise up into any position of influence or interest to others."


This is such a self-subvertive view of life! It really bothers me that I have believed in this for so long! And even though I may come round to viewing life different now, at the age of 26, much is too late! I am never going to go into any of those great institutions, I am hanging around here in Norway, University of Oslo, because that is what seemed more safe at the time I started my "academic carreer" (I haven't finished my MA yet, so there you go. "Carreer" my bleep).


Anyway. Thinking back, now, it is sort of sad to see in just how many ways I have hindered myself in doing just what I would like to do. If I could, I would like to time-travel back to my 14-year old self, giving out wise advise and telling me that I can actually do what I want to. I can pursue my burning interests to the other side of the planet, if that is what would pay off most.

To any other young girl out there (yes, "girl", because there are mostly girls who don't have enough self esteem) I would like to say: Believe in what you've got. Trust that instinct telling you what you are good at. Follow your gut.

And. I know: Easy to say now, hard to believe then. Nevertheless. It is true.

Believe in yourself, girls!

Confessions from a Chocolate Connoisseur

I am, despite the headline for this post, quite a sucker for healthy food. My diet consists mostly of clean meat (fish, chicken, turkey etc - organic if possible), vegetables, olives, nuts, green&white teas, water, herbs (parsley, basil, thyme - you name it).

BUT: I am also quite fond of the dark-brown realm of the cocoa bean. if you can manage to control your intake of this substance, not allowing it to exceed 40 g a day (...), I see no reason why you shouldn't enjoy your melting, brown friend.

To the left is one of the chocolates I usually have a small stock of in my cupboard. This is a good blend of 85% cocoa and real vanilla, but the main reason I keep exactly this brand of chocolate in a cupboard or purse near me, is due to the grocery store's politics of what they choose to put on their shelves. This Swiss chocolate is nice, though, so there's no complaints there.

If in reciprocal nearness to this endazzling little friend, however, I generally go for the darkest of this brand. Their chocolates are organic, and if I remember correctly, real vanilla is used here as well. (The taste of vanillin is such a disappointment once you have bent your tongue to the real stuff.)

Everything in these products are organic, from the vanilla to the raw cane sugar (of which I would actually like some replacement, as I avoid sugar at all costs, exept for this, let's call it - aristocratic, habit).

If you like, you can check out their website here.

Now for the crown of the chocolate God-head; the best of the sumptious brown stuff I have ever tasted. Probably not a shock for most cooks or choco-connoisseurs: Valrhona chocolates.

Well, what can I say. I tasted this brand in a chocolate mousse (containing only chocolate and water) at a rather famous food-scribe's home about a year and a half ago. You know, I never really believed in the aphrodisiac effect of chocolate, but right there I nearly fell out of my pants. What a total experience of heavenly sumptiousness! I didn't just taste with my mouth; my whole body was in on the tasting. I remember feeling a sort of slow, still whirlwind spiralling around my head, heading down through my stomach, down to under my feet and then up again - all in a split second. Mind you, this split second lasted through the small (though sufficiently sized) portion of cocoa bliss. If I had had no self-control, the maker of this mousse could have had me, right there and then. (Only with the slight drawback of his beautiful girlfriend being in the room...)

I believe cooks mostly used their products earlier, but as the taste is so unbelievably --Mmmh-- more and more people seem to have discovered this brand.

Writing about this surely makes the level of saliva rise... I realize that I am actually quite capable of writing myself into a choc-craving state. Ah, well. Why not.

Healthy interests anyone? Anyone?

So hard to concentrate!

Menstrual cramps should be forbidden. How am I supposed to concentrate about my Baudelaire-thesis when it is difficult and painful to sit still, and my belly seems empty even though I just had an avocado, or a handfull of walnuts, or some olives...? True, the thinking centre is not situated in the lower belly, but trust me; your body has enough influence on your thinking as it is.

"Free your mind" - not so easy when your body drags you back down!

It usually helps drinking som nice, white tea. But today that just propels me into a spiral of "now I need something salty, because the tea washed all my minerals out", or, "this detox and purification thing happening when drinking white or green tea surely means I can now have some more olives", and... Blaargh, you get my drift.

Get Up&Out&Walking seems the only solution to this. Or, perhaps, viewing another episode of the BBC Pride and Prejudice?

Well, venting my frustration also seems a good idea.
But that doesn't make the pain go away.

Enough complaining for today.

Tower of Song

Leonard Cohen

Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on
I'm just paying my rent everyday
In the Tower of Song

I said to Hank Williams: How lonely does it get?
Hank Williams hasn't answered yet.
But I hear him coughing all night long
A hundred floors above me
In the Tower of Song

I was born like this, I had no choice.
I was born with the gift of a golden voice.
And twenty-seven angels from the Great beyond
They tied me to this table right here
In the Tower of Song

So you can stick your little pins in that voodoo doll ---
I'm very sorry, baby, doesn't look like me at all
I'm standing by the window where the light is strong
They don't let a woman kill you, not
In the Tower of Song

Now you can say that I've grown bitter, but of this you may be sure:
The rich have got their channels in the bedrooms of the poor
And there's a mighty judgment coming
But I may be wrong ---
You see, you hear these funny voices
In the Tower of Song

I see you standing on the other side
I don't know how the river got so wide
I loved you, baby, way back when
And all the bridges are burning that we might have crossed
But I feel so close to everything that we lost
We'll never have to lose it again

I bid you farewell, I don't know when I'll be back
They're moving us tomorrow to that tower down the track
But You'll be hearing from me, baby
Long after I'm gone
I'll be speaking to you sweetly from a window
In the Tower of Song


Listen to this song on the album I'm your Man. I like it a lot. Perhaps you'd also like to see the documentary from 2005, I think it is called Leonard Cohen - I'm your Man. Made himself quite a catch-phrase there...

Jonathan Culler at play

Today I went to a doctoral dissertation or whatever the English term is - an oral dissertation for the doctoral degree, at the University of Oslo, Norway in this case. It was my brilliant teacher in short prose and prose poems who defended her written doctoral dissertation in order to become a Ph. D. in comparative literature.

While the content of her dissertation was&is highly interesting, the first opponent, Jonathan Culler (professor at Cornell University, US) spent most of his time babbling away about his own reflections on literature as a whole, and posed only three questions at the doctoree (again: whatever you call it in English). Three questions during an hour and a half's worth of speaking, this might give you a clear view of just how much Mr. Culler enjoyed listening to his own voice.

As he himself proclaimed, this was his first ever time as first opponent in this kind of environment, but that does not explain why he spent most of the time elaborating his own views of literature and quoting French authors in loud, well-articulated French (my guess is that he wanted to show off his good knowledge and practice of the language).

I am shocked!
I had hoped that one of the celebrities within literary studies would prove more interesting, and more sharp than this.
Not too brilliant, I have to say.

Akademia - humaniora

Noen ganger skjønner man ting. Man skjønner dem på en slik måte at de griper rett inn i livet ditt, i ditt livs midt. Når man er litteraturstudent synes man i begynnelsen at det er veldig spennende, og at man får holde på med noe som for mange bare er en hobby. Men spesielt innenfor litteraturvitenskap skjønner man raskt at liv og lesing er to forskjellige ting. Man kan analysere dikt og noveller, lese teori og baske med abstrakte problemstillinger - dem går det aldri slutt på. Og det er gøy, bevares, lenge er det det. Men når man holder på med noe over lang tid, er det uomgjengelig at det man har viet seg til spiser seg inn til eksistenskornet som alt spinner seg rundt. Om noe ikke er helt riktig, viser det seg etter hvert - og ofte har man hatt en anelse om det lenge.

Litteraturvitenskap er fremdeles interessant og gøy, men det slår meg stadig vekk hvordan akademia alltid ligger ett skritt bak det som skjer, og at det tar jobben med å forklare og teoretisere og sette inn i historisk rammeverk.

Det dannet seg med en gang et slagord for dette: Fra lecteur til aktør! For hva er det vi driver med her vi sitter bøyd over bøkene? Analyse, spalting, forsøke å se hva andre har ment og tenkt og hvordan de har gjort det, mens de som har skrevet bøkene faktisk gjør noe. De lever gjennom ordene. Vi gjenopplever, gjenskaper, sekundærproduserer. Ikke rart at jeg noen ganger føler meg som en parasitt. Og et hakk fjernet fra eget liv. Det går nok fint an å leve et helt liv i hodet, noe sier meg at det er mer normalen enn unntaket. Men det er ikke bra nok for meg. Jeg må være her når jeg er her, for å si det sånn. Så får vi se om denne måten er den beste å gjøre det på.

Til slutt må jeg si: Jeg elsker litteratur, jeg elsker å lese, lære, reise gjennom andres ord. Det kommer jeg alltid til å gjøre. Men leser som livsvei er jeg ikke like sikker på om er holdbart i lengden. For meg.

Bibliotek!

Dette er biblioteket i Oslo slik det ser ut nå, i hovedhallen. Alt som står oppetter veggene er vanskelig å komme til, de færreste går helt oppe under taket for å finne bøkene de vil ha. Det er vel ca 20% av alle bøkene som står framme i dette "hovedbiblioteket" i Oslo - tegn på plassmangel, mon tro ---. Vi trenger virkelig et nytt, større, mer inspirerende sted å gå for å låne og lese bøker! Gleder meg altså veldig til det nye biblioteket skal stå ferdig, men jeg kan tenke meg at det ikke er ferdig før om ca 10 år... Hvorfor må man alltid vente på gode ting?

Her er noen biblioteker jeg gjerne skulle sittet og lest i!

Og drømmestedet? Det originale biblioteket i Alexandria! Ingen vet hvordan det så ut. . .

Men Escher har bedre fantasi enn de fleste.

Det øverste av disse andre bibliotekene har jeg faktisk vært i: Det er fra Trinity College i Dublin. Bøker er tunge tilstedeværelser, og atmosfæren er sumptuous (den ordlyden er bedre beskrivende enn de norske ord jeg kunne komme på).

For å se flere fantastiske bibliotek er det verdt å sjekke ut boka til Candida Höfer, med intro av Umberto Eco. Den heter rett og slett Libraries og har ISBN 0500543143.

Trivia Game Harry Potter 7

Get this and other HP countdowns at LeakyNews.com

Litt skuffende filmopplevelse

Ok, oppdatering på ting jeg sa man burde glede seg til denne våren/sommeren:

Nå har jeg sett Spider-Man 3. Den var ok, men de to forrige var langt mer interessante. Bilkræsj og tjue meter høye sandmenn klarer ikke holde på min oppmerksomhet særlig lenge. Denne filmen utfordrer svært lite. Og blir i overmål moralsk på slutten - så uttalt rett og riktig moralsk sett at man skulle tro det var en Disney-film. Amerikansk til de grader.

Firer på terningen er passende for denne filmen.

Predictions HP7

Had to do this prediction exam at The Leaky Cauldron - my fauvourite Harry Potter website (except from J.K. Rowling's own, of course). Good fun.

Wallace Stevens: The Plain Sense of Things

The Plain Sense of Things

After the leaves have fallen, we return
To a plain sense of things. It is as if
We had come to an end of the imagination,
Inanimate in an inert savoir.

It is difficult even to choose the adjective
For this blank cold, this sadness without cause.
The great structure has become a minor house.
No turban walks across the lessened floors.

The greenhouse never so badly needed paint.
The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side.
A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition
In a repetitiousness of men and flies.

Yet the absence of the imagination had
Itself to be imagined. The great pond,
The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves,
Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence

Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see,
The great pond and its waste of the lilies, all this
Had to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge,
Required, as necessity requires.



As the previously posted poem by Nagarjuna (which, incidentally, is not a poem in the traditional way of thinking - rather like philosophical learning in the form of verse) is, by definition, Eastern in origin and form, this poem by Wallace Stevens seems to me to hold a reflection of the Eastern simplicity - within which is contained a profound complexity. It is rather revealing to the Western mind and way of expressing itself that this poem probably would have been put as a three-stanza haiku, had the author been, say, Japanese.

This way of expressing oneself, however, seems to be easier to grasp for our Eurocentric/westbent minds. As I myself belong to the Western camp, I couldn't really tell you the difference in the way of thinking between these two traditions. But I do believe that poems and written Eastern philosophy hints at how different the view of existence in different cultures can be.

At the same time: The direct experience of being human is something every person on this planet shares. So any difference in thinking, acting or organizing one's life and society will never be completely unintelligible. This is something more than one politician and other people of power might want to ponder. Before you go to war, of any kind, search within yourself to see whether there might be some understanding of the "opponent"'s point of view. Most of the time, you will find that there is.

Don't be afraid to look deeper into yourself that you normally allow yourself to do. Whatever you find will not be lethal to you. You might even find that you get to know a person that has longed to be recognized by you: Yourself.

Te!

Litt reklame synes jeg man kan bedrive, i hvert fall når det gjelder en butikk og folk som er så gode til det de driver med: Le Palais des thes er en svært god teforretning som har en filial i Oslo; i Vibesgt 10 på Majorstua.

Ta en tur dit hvis du er glad i te. Du finner garantert noe du liker, og noe du ikke har smakt eller luktet før. Prøv en av de hvite teene, de har en subtil og rund smak. Og hvis du er tekanne-elsker, som jeg, kan du se noen tradisjonelle kinesiske og japanske utgaver (se på, for de er relativt dyre), i tillegg til nyere design. Riktig en forretning etter mitt hjerte!