Et debattinnlegg i Aftenposten dyttet meg mot Solveig Østrems artikkel i Samtiden angående forfatters bruk av eget liv, og dermed av andre personer som har vært del av deres liv, i sine romaner. Jeg kan ikke annet enn være enig med Østrem om at den etiske diskusjonen er relevant. Det burde være mulig å lage god litteretur uten å utlevere andre – gjenkjennelige – mennesker. Nå synes jo jeg, som kjent, at Hanne Ørstaviks romaner mangler en del på å være god litteratur, og på sett og vis har Østrems innvendiger en relevans til dette også. Hvis forfatteren er for opphengt i egen følelse av venninen(e)s mangel på forståelse, forklarer dette kanskje hvorfor bøkene (eller i hvert fall den boken jeg har lest) blir så intetsigende. Personlige konflikter er sjelden spesiellt interessante med mindre forfatteren makter å gjøre dem universelle, og det makter ikke Ørstavik. Også i Presten er mangelen på forstålse et tilbakevendene tema, hovedpersonen har en klar oppfattning av at venninen ikke forstår, sier helt feil ting, ikke er like opptatt av det som er “sant” som henne selv. Hun har riktignok også en følelse av at hun heller ikke var forståelsesfull nok selv, men som jeg tolker det er denne selvinnsikten kun forårsaket av at venninnen har begått selvmord – en nokså tydelig handling som ville skape skyldfølelse hos enhver. Nå er forsåvidt denne skyldfølelsen også i bunn og grunn egoistisk – hvorfor skal hovedpersonen gå ut fra at hun hadde noen mulighet for å forhindre eller forhaste venninnens selvmord? For meg forsterker den dermed kun bildet av hovedpersonen som et noe bortskjemt vesen som ser seg selv som verdens navle og som den eneste som har forstått noe som helst…
And we all go aaw
Quite absolutely brand new nephew (well, ok, so he’s a week old in the picture. That’s pretty new, you know.):
Which book?
With a TBR-pile as tall as Himalaya, this could be dangerous.
Via Ms Bookish, who in the same post mentions a book called Opening the Book: Finding a Good Read which works along the same principles as the website, but also has an interesting set of definitions of “type of reader”. I obviously fall into the “Avid” category, too.
Just popping in
I’m an aunt. Well, technically, I suppose I’ve been an aunt for a while, but however. I’m an aunt again. Or something.
Anyway, there’s a picture of the (presumably) happy father and his aaaaw-worthy son in the papers today, in connection with a huge discussion currently plastered all over the media about whether the father should or shouldn’t attend the actual birth. Forget the stupid discussion – enjoy the picture.
My life in a box
Or, more accurately, 98 boxes now, and counting. I am trying to pack. Thursday morning a van will appear on my doorstep and someone will whisk all the boxes and most of the furniture (well, I’m keeping the bed, a girl needs someplace to sleep, after all, and the computer and desk) away to storage where it will remain until we have found a flat in Trondheim and are ready to move in.
I may have mentioned this before, but I have a lot of stuff.
And books. I have a lot of books.
To complicate the matter I am a bit obsessive about said books, insisting on updating the database (what do you mean “Database?”? Of course I have all my books registered in a database. Doesn’t everyone?) with the location of each book. As in: Which box each book has gone into. I am not entirely sure that there is any point to this (though I suppose it would make it easier to claim insurance should, god forbid, any boxes get lost in transit), but it makes me feel happier knowing that I have a system. Sort of. Except the actual packing and updating with box numbers is getting to me. I’d quite like to be done now. Which I’m not.
Another problem is that I keep finding books I’d meant to read but “forgotten” about. A. Edward Newton’s Amenities of Book Collecting…! How could I have forgotten that I finally found a decent and decently priced copy on ABE? Holbrook Jackson’s The Anatomy of Bibliomania! But I’ve been wanting to read that for ages! Why haven’t I? Oh well, only one thing to do: Read it now. The pile of books I can’t possibly put in storage because I really need to read them NOW is growing larger by the minute. At least this time around I’ve managed to supress the urge to refuse to put books I’m particularly fond of into storage. There are some books that, while I might not read them very often and might not look at them for months at a time, I have great qualms about placing anywhere where I can’t have immediate access to them should I want it. This time around it really is just books that I want to read as soon as possible that have gone into the “can’t be packed” pile. It’s still a largish pile, but it’s far from as large as it could have been (and has normally been, in the history of me moving).
In earlier moves I have also had the satisfaction of purging – that is, getting rid of stuff and books that I no longer want or need. Unfortunately (or should that be fortunately? I’m not entirely sure) I have gotten quite good at regular purging lately, I get rid of stuff and books as I go along. Which means that, with only a few boxes of books to go, I’ve found all of two – 2 – books I might as well get rid of (one being a paperback duplicate of one I have in hardback, one being a chickflick novel I’m never going to read).
All in all, I am now officially sick of packing. We are definitely not going to buy a flat we’re not 100% happy with because I really do not want to move again, ever.
This is probably the last post for a while – I’ll be off, probably packing. Speak to you again next week when all I have is the computer and a pile of books. Mind you, I might be reading instead.
Yes, perhaps
I get e-mails from members of the Norwegian Malt Whisky Society all the time (naturally, I’m still the secretary after all) and a lot of them are along these lines:
Hello!
It’s been a long time since I’ve received any information from you. Perhaps it’s because I’ve got a new e-mail address?
Regards,
nn
Yes, perhaps.
Oh yes
When attempting to get off a plane Thursday night and getting to whereever Martin was waiting after not having seen him for 11 days (ok, 11 days might not sound too bad, but this is a LONG time for us) I was wishing I had brought a machete. Why do people always have to wait for their friends at the narrowest point? Once I did get to him (and after a bit of smooching and such) Martin pointed out that as I’d been flying I wouldn’t have been allowed to bring a machete anyway, a fact which had completely slipped my mind in the exasperation (I suppose slicing people’s legs off with a machete isn’t stricktly “allowed”, either, come to think of it). This notice would have been a useful alternative.
(Via)
You know when you’ve been tangoed
Your aura shines Orange!
What Color Is Your Aura?
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Update
I’ve realised I’ve been so erratic in my posting lately that you, dear reader, probably don’t have much idea of what’s going on…
Well, Martin was made redundant some time before Christmas, and we decided it’d be a good time to think about moving to Trondheim rather than have him job-hunt down here and then have to change jobs again whenever we did decide to move. He was lucky (or clever) and landed a new job, which he started 27th December – so since then I’ve been mostly making it in Oslo on my own. (Boo-hoo.)
I’ve no intention of playing at long-distance relationships for longer than necessary, so I’ve resigned my job in Oslo and my last day of work here is 28th February, after which I’m hot-footing it up to Trondheim faster than you can think “hot-foot”. I’ve yet to find a new job, but I assume it should be doable. I got around to checking the government rules today and discovered it’s 8 weeks quarantene before I get unemployment benefits since I resigned voluntarily, rather than the 3 weeks I thought it was, which is somewhat unfortunate, but can’t be helped. All it really means is that I really need to find myself a job of some description, but I was kinda planning on doing that in any case. Much as it sounds tempting to be a “kept woman” it’s hardly practical – and I’d probably grow quite sick of lounging around the house all day after only a few weeks.
So, job or no job, I have plenty to occupy my time. I need to pack all the books and other nick-nacks and de-assemble the furniture in time for the removal people who will be coming to pick it all up (and, most importantly, carrying it all down the four flights of stairs…) and put it in storage for whenever we find a flat. I need to get the flat sold – once we’ve emptied it out. I need to keep up with Martin and the house-hunting, as he’s only rarely got access to the net, I need to do a lot of the initial research. I need to apply for jobs, and preferably make a good enough impression that I’m called for interviews. And, oh, I have this wedding to plan.
Besides which, there is plenty to do at my current-if-not-for-very-long-now job. I could just leave it for my replacement, but I do rather need those references…