A rose called Ingrid Bergman

This is the most beautiful rose I have ever seen.

I know the image is a little dark, but it is the only image I could find which transmits the velvety thick dark red petals of this rose. Whoever named this rose is a genius - the real Ingrid Bergman certainly is beautiful, and in an old-fashioned way.

I discovered this rose a couple of years ago when I was walking in the Botanical Garden in Oslo, which is quite close to where I live. In the end of the rose garden, placed like a queen, she stood whispering her red presence.

I do not know why, but this rose actually reminds me of the smile of Mona Lisa. Secretive, I guess is the key word here.

Om lesning

Jeg har mange ganger tenkt på hvorfor jeg leser. Hvorfor det har vært så viktig, og hvorfor jeg fortsetter å holde fast i disse utallige andre verdnene. Leser man mye, kan man bli redd for at det er en slags virkelighetsflukt i bunnen av den livslange aktiviteten, og det er det andre som har tenkt på også. Se bare hva Marcel Proust sier:

"Lesning ligger på terskelen til det åndelige liv; det kan introdusere oss for det; det utgjør det ikke. . . Så lenge lesning er sporen hvis magiske nøkler har åpnet døren til disse rommene dypt inne i oss som vi ellers ikke ville ha visst hvordan vi skullle komme inn i, er dens rolle i våre liv sunn. Farlig blir det derimot når lesning i stedet for å vekke oss til sinnets personlige liv, får en tendens til å ta dets plass." - Marcel Proust.


Proust bør være mannen som kan si noe om dette - grensene mellom liv og litteratur var for ham nærmest usynlige.

Men hvorfor skal vi være så redde for at lesning tar over for et virkelig liv? Jeg vil heller si det slik at den utgjør en egen del av livet til oss lesere, og at det ikke er noe mindre virkelig enn den fysisk utøvende del av livene våre. Er ikke lesningen nettopp et sted vi kan hente informasjon, hvor vi kan vurdere nye tanker, skjerpe våre egne sinn mot andres horisonter, som ofte kan være klarere og mer detaljerte enn våre egne. Lesningen er et viktig rom i manges liv. For min del er det et selvreflektivt rom, et sted hvor jeg kan puste ut og lære noe, og se meg selv utenfra et øyeblikk. Lesning er alltid en dialog. Det er en dialog med forfatteren av det du skriver, men det er samtidig en dialog med deg selv og din egen horisont, som stadig blir oppdatert idet du leser og lærer og oppdager nye ting. Lesning er en av de beste metodene for å oppdatere seg og hente erfaringsbrokker og livsinnstillinger og all mulig visdom fra resten av verden.

Det er mye mer å skrive om dette emnet, men ettersom jeg driver og skriver på masteroppgave, og forsøker å overholde den stipulerte innleveringsdatoen som er 15. november, må jeg gå tilbake til det!

(Foreløpig et prøveprosjekt, men jeg har tenkt til å ha norske bloggposter i Esmeraldas rom - en naboblogg. Så får jeg se om det er noen vits i det etter hvert, eller om det er overdrevent selvdiggende å holde på sånn! )

Dalai Lama exhausted. Anyone else worried?

Dalai Lama is currently at a hospital in Mumbai, India.

This is from a Guardian article, Thursday 28.08:
"A spokesman for Mumbai's Lilavati hospital suggested the visit was unexpected. "He comes every six months for a routine checkup. Around a month ago, a checkup was conducted and he was in perfect health," Mohan Rajan said."

That is, before the Olympics had begun.

Although Dalai Lama has been diagnosed with exhaustion before, in 2006, the recent incident strikes me as a wake-up call. Is it a complete coincidence that this happens right after the Olympics held in China? Can it be completely arbitrary that this man, who is not only well-informed and highly intelligent but also deeply tuned into the waves of energy on this planet, good and bad, suffers exhaustion at the end of an olympic arrangement which in many ways put a gloss over a deeply disturbing rule, and a seeming lack of respect for humankind in the world's largest country?

Dalai Lama has had to deal with the Chinese from their violent takeover in Tibet in 1959. Since then, he has lived in exile in Dharamsala, India. And despite his and the Tibetan government's repeated attempts to have serious and detailed talks with the Chinese leadership about how Tibet - as a part of China, something the Tibetan government is crystal clear about - shall exist both as a part of China and with more autonomy than now, they have not succeeded. At all. Their main interest is to secure their Buddhist culture in the way they wish, allowing it to continue its central place in Tibetan culture.

The exhaustion is probably partly a result of the Chinese hard stubbornness in this religious matter, which means that they for many many years have refused serious talks with the Tibetan representatives about how to work together. Such lowbrow behaviour compared with other two-faced attempts of tricking the Tibetans must certainly strain Dalai Lama. I know it does me.

He is a leader with a people and a geographical area, but who is forced to live away from both. He endures the deep pain this must create and has done so for nearly fifty years. No wonder he sometimes needs a three week rest.

You can read more about this matter here and here.

Lotus flower - and the Norwegian national flower

I have to say that I understand why the lotus flower holds such a special place in many Eastern cultures, like India and Vietnam. In India the lotus is the national flower, and both hinduism and buddhism honours it with a central and significant meaning.

The most evident quality of the lotus is of course its beauty, but that in itself would not be enough to make so many cultures and religions view it as such a special flower. The delicate beauty of the lotus flower is enhanced when compared with its place of growth, which is usually in a pond or river. Its roots are founded deep down in the mud or soil, while its leaves float on the top of the water. The flower itself rises on a stem above the water, and can in such a way be called unpolluted by the elements surrounding it.

From this unmistakably metaphorical state of existence the lotus has lent itself to symbolism in many of the cultures surrounding its natural habitat, and occurs in many a poem, painting, drawing or saying.

In Norway we actually have two national flowers, one, "bergfrue" (saxifraga cotyledon), meaning "mistress of the mountains", was chosen at an international botanical congress in Amsterdam 1935, probably without the participation of any members of the Norwegian people - except the botanists, of course. This plant I have no relation to, probably because it grows more widely in the mountains than in the woods, and it is in the woods that I have most frequently walked about.

The other one is called "røsslyng" (calluna vulgaris) - "ling" or "heather" in English, and in all of its minimalistic insignificance, this choice I can understand. Anyone who has wandered through the woods in the fall, or across the wide mountain plateaus, will have met this sweet-smelling, unpretentious little plant - and that includes most of the Norwegian population. Suitably, this one was chosen in a large radio programme in 1976 (a programme which still has the most listeners in Norway) and probably reflects a widespread fondness for nature and hiking.

This post took a most unexpected turn for me, I intended to write more widely about the wonderful and significant lotus flower, and then a kind of natural nostalgia caught up with me in the middle of the whole thing. And now I have to go back to what I am supposed to be doing; writing along on my masters thesis in comparative literature.

It was nice with a little break, though. So long, existent and non-existent readers.

Yeats on the art of life vs writing

This excerpt from a poem called "The Choice" by W.B. Yeats is highly interesting, coming from a man of letters in the middle of life:

***

The intellect of man is forced to choose

Perfection of the life, or of the word

And if it take the second must refuse

A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark

***

Similarly he wrote this on life vs writing in his diary at some time in 1909:

"To keep these notes natural and useful to me I must keep one note from leading to another, that I may not surrender myself to literature. Every note must come as a casual thought, then it will be my life. Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do that is to exchange life for a logical process. "

I find these thoughts rather soothing as well as disturbing, as I find the balance between writing and living somewhat difficult. Not that I am a writer of any kind, but I recognize Yeats' fear of wrapping one's thoughts or insights into a larger logic, a logic aleady defined and lined up, ready to mould and melt your independent thought into a larger pattern of sorts.

This time I might actually take someone's advise and follow it. I think I will try to be conscious of this while writing in my journal - whenever that will be.

Rumi for the people

Some Rumi wisdom on your way:


I swallowed
some of the Beloved's sweet wine,
and now I am ill.
My body aches,
my fever is high.
They called in the Doctor and he said,
drink this tea!
Ok, time to drink this tea.
Take these pills!
Ok, time to take these pills.
The Doctor said,
get rid of the sweet wine of his lips!
Ok, time to get rid of the doctor.

The image is from a Rumi festival in Sweden in September 2007 - looks like a female Nordic dervish to me.

Life can be so sweet.

Silver Needle - Bai Hao Yinzhen

Almost as a followup to my previous posting of the Japanese-like poem "The Rider", I would like to devote a post to the delicious tea called Silver Needle, or Bai Hao Yinzhen. This is a white tea, and one of my favourites - I guess I can even say the favourite tea of mine.

If you have tasted this tea, you will have no problems understanding why I would like to write a hymn to it. The taste is more delicate than the smell of dewy roses in the morning, the texture smooth and supple as silk, and both its colour, taste and textuality is of such subtlety that you could almost miss it, if you are looking for a strong green taste to hit your palate.

Let's start with the way this tea looks: Like water with a little sunlight in it. The colour is so pale that you could almost mistake it for water, but there is a golden glow to the water that is unmistakable and hints at what it contains.

Next, if you bend down to sniff the pale gold water, you notice how ringlets of floral notes hit your nostrils, so sweet and watery that you could suspect someone for having opened a phial of eau de cologne in the other side of the room. But no, it is the contents of your cup that is producing this mild, sweet nose-tickling odour.

And then, when your curiosity as well as your mouth and body is intensely tuned into this surprise of a fluid, you raise the cup to your lips, sniff, and take a sip. What now? If you are not sufficiently fine tuned, the taste might pass you by. And this is part of the wonder with this tea! It demands something from you in order for it to reveal its secrets. "Why would I reveal my hidden landscape of white petals and flowery minerals if you behave like a brute and expect me to thunder your tongue with rude, grass-like tones" it whispers with a wry smile. But if you do meet the whiteness with a wide and ready mind, palate and senses, this tea will tell you stories! (I know I sound a bit exalted and exaggerating but the beauty and subtleness of this tea is so appealing to me that I have started a bit of a love affair to it. And haven't people in love always been a bit loud about their objet du désir?)
So, yes, this tea will tell you stories. It will tell you stories of rolling hills and slopes covered with the bush of camellia sinensis, hill after hill of green and juicy vegetation in the Fujian province in China. This is another element of why Silver Needle is such a gem: it is only grown and picked in this province, between March 15 and April 10 - taking care to pick them when it is not raining. Solely the top buds are good enough for this tea, and they are also supposed to be undamaged to be able to call its brew a real cup of Silver Needle. Does this not meet your standards for something rare, pure and refined? It certainy does mine.

Another virtue of this tea is that it is relatively low in caffeine. To me this is really an advantage, as I find it hard to sleep if I drink something close to coffee later than 3-4 pm. This tea I will at least dare to drink up to 5 pm ;-).

Did this post make you feel like trying a cup, or a bowl, or a glass of Silver Needle? Nothing would make me happier.

The Rider, by Naomi Shihab Nye

There is a slight Easternness to this poem, a simplicity of sadness and lightness combined which appeals to me, particularily a Japanese feel towards the end with the pink petals silently falling. This is the image that remains with me after reading it, and the main reason why I want to go back reading the poem over - the slow, soft petals that are barely pink, existing next to nothing, held up by air alone in a waltz teasing gravity.

The overall feel of sportmanship to this poem (and what underlies the wish to win) is not at all unsuiting in these olympic times, either.

I have never heard of this poet before, though she might be very well known in the English speaking literary world. Sometimes being a Norwegian, a Scandinavian, makes me feel like sitting on the edge of the world, but then again that is often where I would like to be! No complaints here.

The Rider

A boy told me
if he roller-skated fast enough
his loneliness couldn't catch up to him,
the best reason I ever heard
for trying to be a champion.
What I wonder tonight
pedaling hard down King William Street
is if it translates to bicycles.
A victory! To leave your loneliness
panting behind you on some street corner
while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
pink petals that have never felt loneliness,
no matter how slowly they fell.

From Fuel, 1998

Can't you just smell the silence in the end of this poem?

I think it is wonderful. It equals to sipping a delicate brew of Silver Needle tea, with its hints of floral and mineral notes in the soft transparent golden liquid.

Birthday of Emily Brontë (1818-1848)

I remember Wuthering Heights as one of the best and most passionate love novels I have ever read, but looking back carefully I actually don't think I ever finished it. Although I remember a lot of the novel's action, it had a deeper emotional impact than an intellectual one. Recounting this piece of literature, it is the feeling of despair and impossible love, a contraction around the heart and a sea of sadness in the chest that is present with me. And this hints at why I never finished the story - I simply didn't stand the anguish and turmoil. Being quite an emotional reader (some times, at least) the story's innumerable difficulties were simply too much.

A little biographical information:

It's the birthday of the novelist Emily Brontë, born in Thornton, England, in 1818. Emily Brontë, who wrote what is considered one of the greatest love stories of all time, Wuthering Heights (1847), but who never had a lover and almost never talked to anyone besides her family and her servants. She and her sisters Anne and Charlotte and their brother, Branwell, educated themselves at home, reading their father's large collection of classic literature, while their father locked himself up in his room and even ate dinner alone. Emily was interested in mysticism, and she had no friends. Emily also wrote poetry. Her sister Charlotte discovered some of her verses: "I looked it over, and something more than surprise seized me, —a deep conviction that these were not common effusions, not at all like the poetry women generally write. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine. To my ear, they had also a peculiar music—wild, melancholy, and elevating." In 1848, Emily died of tuberculosis when she was just 30 years old, standing in the living room of her family's parsonage with one hand on the mantle. Emily Brontë wrote in Wuthering Heights:

"I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is, or should be, an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of creation, if I were entirely contained here?"

And,

"I have dreamed in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind."

I think this last sentence, of dreams permeating one's mind with a watery colour resembling that of wine through water, is exquisite. What a sensual, tactile, even tasty impression it makes! It really is tactility, vision, taste and smell in one image. Remarkable as well as eye and mouth-watering.

Auden, Icarus and Truth

As always, a few musings follow the poem.

Musée Des Beaux Arts
by W. H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind a tree.

In Brueghel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

For a better view of this painting and to get a better chance of spotting the next to invisible splashing of Icarus's legs into the green ocean, thus catching the depressing insight of an apparent human insignificance, click here .

Although I quite agree with Auden on the single human being's relative insignificance, I am also deeply convinced that humanity has an immensely important role to play in the development of the universe. As the most intelligent life form known to us, we carry a wonderful responsability of continual development, of keeping creation alive. Of course, as is becoming more and more clear with pollution, global warming, never ending wars and a violently unfair balance in money and food planetwise, this responsability at the same time holds the danger of corruption and human weakness or even evil (strong word). But great progress, blinding insight and ever deeper love for the rest of existing forms tend to get its opposite pole of stagnation/reactionism, new ways of suppressing and witholding of information and boon that should be to the benefit of all.

As I see it, this dualistic tendency, this inevitable polarity, is just part of a universal law. With expansion comes the possibility of even greater contraction and walking backwards; with blinding light even deeper darkness.

However, this does not make me pessimistic. I have too much faith in human goodness, and in another universal law: Truth will out.

This, as I see it, is deeply true.

The 14th Dalai Lama in Britain

There is an interesting article out about the Dalai Lama, in the July issue of The New York Review of Books called "How he sees it now" by Jonathan Mirsky.

Here we get a glimpse of the difficult territory this spiritual leader navigates in.

The article is written on the backdrop of the 14th Dalai Lama's visit to Britain in May. China's political importance is reflected in several ways: Prime minister Gordon Brown would not receive the Dalai Lama in 10 Downing Street, in the same way his predecessor Tony Blair would not. A frail diplomatic balance must clearly be kept at all costs.

Also, rather absurdly, DL visited Oxford, but as no one was allowed to say precisely where, or take any pictures at the place he was welcomed (?), the building remains nameless. This seems rather paranoid, and also a good indicator of the enormous influence China has on practically every other country in the world. No one wants them as an enemy, and it doesn't exactly seem difficult to get antagonized by them.

For probably the ninehundredth time the Dalai Lama had to answer questions about whether he wants autonomy for Tibet. To this he answered "I have said one thousand times we do not seek independence. China should manage defense and foreign policy. Inside Tibet, Tibetans should be responsible for education, religion and the environment. We want the preservation of Tibetan culture inside the People's Republic of China." (page 4 in NYRB.) This statement is as clear as anything, and I find it strange that the Chinese cannot trust this. If anything, this shows how little they understand about this man's culture, morality and sincerity.

Tibet is a state, or an area or whatever we should call the place now, of great cultural and religious depth. Or at least it was, until the Chinese invaded Tibet in 1959 and demolished huge amounts of buildings and priceless, old artefacts expressing Tibetan religion/spirituality and their long cultural tradition.

The article ends with a priceless citation The Dalai Lama made to the writer of the article:

"In Oxford the Dalai Lama whispered into my ear that 'my doctors tell me I am in very good health. Everything fine. They think I will live to 102'."

What better than 29 more years of this peaceworking, loving, wise man?

Is the time for the long reads over?

Today I was thinking:

Is the time for concentration over?

Is the time for longtime commitment to thorough reading a forgotten art?

Are "slow texts" and literature that demand more from you than 30 minutes a day, perhaps even spread out between text messages, phone calls and checking your mail losing the battle in these efficient times? I really sensed a voice telling me that I couldn't possibly consider sitting down a couple of hours every day to do what I enjoy so much: read.

Walking past a shelf in a book store today with a display of Proust's In Search of Lost Time or Remembrence of Things Past, a memory of reading the first volume of his long mémoire filled me -- or rather, my memory of reading his wonderfully rich text brought back the feeling of how it was to read him. It actually feels like a deep, fluid-like presence in the whole of my chest, particularly in the heart-area.

But this sweet, thick fluid was immediately mixed with a mild melancholy, as I felt how rarely I get to sink into the wonderland of makebelieve and literature that I inhabited as a child, when this kind of excess was allowed.

Proust's texts are a mix of makebelieve and real life, and offers a texture so rich, so deeply reverberating in your soul (at least in mine) that it's strange how seldom I actually find the time to dive into them and similarly magical literary landscapes.

Naturally, when our macrostructure tends towards fragmentation and speedy efficiency without time for depth and continuous study, the small structures suffer the same destiny. You are such a microstructure which is part of the macro; in fact you are the ones making the macro, and that means you can also change this structure from within.

Want the world to allow you to spend a few hours a day with continued, unabrupted concentration? Just do it! Spend those hours by yourself. You will help make this place better to live in.

Mary Oliver: The Summer Day

What better this warm, yellow, leaf-humming day than a true and simple summer poem.

Mary Oliver has visited this blog before, and in this poem you can recognize her pure and spacious curiosity and her heartfelt concentrated presence. Sorry about all the adjectives, but how explain a poet's voice?

Better just to read her:



The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

* * *

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
How about kneeling to your own nature, or to your one wild and precious life?
How about agreeing to the simplicity Mary Oliver is expressing.

Beedle the Bard and I

Today I'd like to post the text I entered for the Beedle the Bard-competition held by Amazon UK and US. The winner of this competition would be awarded a trip to London, stay in a hotel, and most important of all - be allowed a reading of Ms Rowling's unpublished book of handwritten stories (which only exists in 7 copies), namely The Tales of Beedle the Bard. As I would be thrilled by this experience, I naturally entered the contest.

There were three tasks you could choose among, writing in a "creative" way. (This adjective annoys me a little; what writing is not creative?) You were only allowed one entrance, and that entrance should not consist of more than 100 words. Which is not a lot. Of course, judging by the 10 finalists in each of the two age groups (13-18 and 18 and above), every smartass understood this as writing in verse, that is to say, old fashioned, rhyming poetry. To me, poetry can exist everywhere, not only in rhythmical, pulse-driven verse. Although you get to say a lot in a few words with the tried and tested ballad-style.

Nevertheless. The three options you had were:

• What songs do wizards use to celebrate birthdays?
• What other sports do wizards play besides Quidditch?
• What have you learned from the Harry Potter series that you use in everyday life?

- and I chose the first, as the theme of music and magic struck me as the most poetical of the three. (Of course, the winner wrote a versified answer to the least poetical of the three, namely the last one. And it really was quite good, also she was under 18, which is a good thing in this kind of competition.)

So, tata, here is my response to what songs wizard sing to celebrate their birthdays:

When each wizard is born a colour surrounds them, and in this colour there is a sound. Every birthday allows the colour of their soul to seep out for a while, bringing with it a new sound. In this way a song starts to form. When a wizard's birthday is celebrated, their family and friends gather and listen to the new song performed by the wizard himself and sing it back to him. In the end of his life the song envelops the wizard as a deeply coloured fabric. Purple is only worn by wizards with especially beautiful soul songs.

© Tuva Langjord 2008

A sucker for covers

I may be strange, but I have always really enjoyed this cover for T.S. Eliot's collected poems. On the screen you can only see the graphics and the colouring (all good), but in real, tactile life you can touch the simplicity, elegance and smoothness of the book. The cover is made in some kind of smooth carton which is just luxuriously simple and supple beneath your fingers.

It is the honourable house of Faber&Faber that publishes Eliot's work. Eliot himself worked there for several years, providing him with a much needed steady income. Poets and playwrites never did get a lot of money for their hard work.

Have a great, summery Tuesday

(Here it is rather windswept, but sunny all the same)

Love from me and

The Tuscan "unicorn"

I know, I know, I am an incurable dreamer, but I did enjoy this article in the Guardian about a one-horned deer in a park in Tuscany, Italy. A little magic is often just what I need.

And why should we not call it a unicorn? After all, uni+corn literally means one horn, something this creature certainly possesses.

I would love it if unicorns actually existed, though...

Room of van Gogh

This is a photograph taken in Vincent van Gogh's room.

The simplicity of it speaks to me.

It seems like a van Gogh-painting itself.

Enjoy the silence!

Can't you just hear the drumming, the poppetipopping from the early 1990s while reading Depeche Mode's lyrics for "Enjoy the silence" from the album Violator?


Words like violence
Break the silence
Come crashing in
Into my little world
Painful to me
Pierce right through me
Can't you understand
Oh my little girl
All I ever wanted
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm
Vows are spoken
To be broken
Feelings are intense
Words are trivial
Pleasures remain
So does the pain
Words are meaningless
And forgettable
All I ever wanted
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm
All I ever wanted
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm
All I ever wanted
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm
Enjoy the silence
Enjoy the silence
Enjoy the silence
Enjoy the silence

Edmond Jabès, from "Adam, or the Birth of Anxiety"

Just a few days ago, I learnt about this Egyptian Jewish poet who lived from 1912 to 1991 in Egypt and later Paris, France as every Jew was expelled from Egypt with the Suez Crisis in 1956. Jabès wrote in French, but although I did study French for a year, I do not find myself able to read French literature the way it deserves. This excerpt is rather lengthy, but there are a few musings at the end of this post, if you think you would find that interesting ;-).


- - -
Did God consider for a moment that with one stroke He
deprived this man of what He would in the future grant all
other creatures?
Adam, son of Nothing by the will of God, fruit of wan-
ton benevolence,
fruit ripe before ripening, tree in full leaf before growing,
world completed before emerging from nothing, but only in
the Mind of God.
Man of strange thoughts on which, however, his life de-
pends.
Man chained to the Void, chained to the absence of all
absence
The past reassures us. Man without such security, deliv-
ered to whom? to what?
Man without light or shadow, without origin or road,
without place, unless part of that place outside time which
is indifferent to man.
Things must feel this way. But no doubt even they have
their thing-memory, recalling wood and steel, clay or marble.
Recalling their slow progress toward the idea, the know-
ledge of the thing they were to embody.
O emptiness! Nothing to lean against, nothing to rest on,
is this anxiety?
Time molds us. Without past there is no present, and the
I cannot be imagined.
Orphaned in the fullest sense of the term, of father and
mother, but also of himself - are we not engendered in that
moment of carnal and spiritual experience? - what could
seeing and hearing be for him? What could speaking or act-
ing mean? What weight has a word, what reverberations in
the future? What could it profit him? What contentment,
what soothing could he expect from any gesture?
Discoveries, encounters, surprises, disappointments,
wonder? Probably. But in relation to what other ap-
proaches, in reply to which inner question, lacking all com-
parison?
The key lies in the fertilized egg, the ovule, the fetus.
The mystery and the miracle.
Fertile forgetfulness. It pushes us to sound soul and spirit
in the name of spirit and soul. It helps us clear the various
paths of consciousness, to learn and unlearn, to take what
is offered, whether by dawn or by night, daily, in short, to
create ourselves.
I am not. All I have ever been is the man life has allowed
me to be.

- - -


First of all, I am rather frustrated with the formatting of texts in this blogging system; I had formatted this poem perfectly, and then when viewing how it would look, it had leaked back into its normal and faulty form. Grrrrr! In poetry, form is an important part of the transmission of meaning.

Well...
There are several striking parts of this excerpt. The ending stanza, "I am not. All I have ever been is the man life has allowed me to be" is as true as anything. The preceding stanza as well, that we create ourselves every moment, we choose and fill this space we call 'myself' all the time, and are logged onto something bigger than us, or "chained to the Void" as Jabès puts it.

It is a mystery and a miracle, all along, life is a mystery and a miracle.

Also, when Jabès states that "Time molds us. Without past there is no present, and the I cannot be imagined" I hear him loud and clear. We believe in time, we believe in our past and that moulds us into the person that we think is us. How about letting go of the past; how about letting go of the things we believe we have to be because of what we used to be; how about filling the present with truth and each of our underlying and unique expression of the continuity of Being that we are all along?

I am not. All I have ever been is the man life has allowed me to be.

Or, as Tranströmer puts it:


Uppdrag: att vara där man är.
Också i den löjliga gravallvarliga
rollen - jag är just den plats
där skapelsen arbetar på sig själv.


English:


Mission: to be where I am.
Also in the role of ridiculous
seriousness - I am exactly that place
where creation works on itself.


(Hasty translation, as Robert Bly's translation in no way conveys what this poem says.)

This is an excerpt from "Guard Duty" or "Posteringen" as is the original Swedish title, from the collection Stigar (Pathways in English). I always return to Tranströmer. To me, he is the blood of stones. He touches the sap of my soul.

A Perfect Sunday Poem -- Emily Dickinson

Truth and simplicity is usually all we need. Then we're going all along.

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church —
I keep it, staying at Home —
With a Bobolink for a Chorister —
And an Orchard, for a Dome —

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice —
I, just wear my Wings —
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton — sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman —
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last —
I'm going, all along.

Nr 236 (in the edition by R.W. Franklin, 1999)

Tomas Tranströmer: Porträtt med kommentar

Dette er et utdrag fra Tranströmers "Porträtt med kommentar" fra samlingen Klanger och spår (1966), nærmere bestemt de to siste strofene fra diktet. Noen ganger hender det at ord og meninger brått stiger fra siden sin og sklir like inn i den sjelstilstanden som dominerer når jeg leser disse ordene. For et par dager siden, etter at jeg hadde lest flere Tranströmer-dikt med hele kroppen og et vidåpent hjerte, slo disse radene ned i meg, det vil si, de fant seg mykt og enkelt til rette på det leiet jeg hadde forberedt for dem, uten å ha kjennskap til akkurat disse versene:

Vad är jag? Ibland för länge sen
kom jag några sekunder helt nära
vad JAG är, vad JAG är, vad JAG är.

Men just som jag fick syn på JAG
försvann JAG och ett hål uppstod
och genom det föll jag som Alice.


Å falle inn i seg selv, å bli slukt av en tomhet og et mørke som ikke bare hører en selv til, er en del av det naturlige ved å være menneske. Dette tomrommet, det ukjente, sorte, som ligger foran deg som en uant mulighet, er en invitasjon til nettopp det ukjente, til å kaste seg tillitsfullt ut i hva naturen har å by på av dybde og virkelighet. Disse to strofene minte meg på det endeløse mysteriet som omslutter oss, som vi svever i og er en del av samme om vi vil det, tror det, vet det, eller ei. Og grunnen til at jeg fikk øye på det akkurat nå, i Tranströmers dikt, var selvsagt fordi jeg var klar for det akkurat nå.

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.)