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Articles tagged "Norwegian"

The Art of Falling

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How can anyone predict the future if it's not already mapped out?

A Telephone Conversation

Dear little squirrel, can you hear me, do you understand what I say when I talk to you, can you feel me lifting you, as we cross the yard together in order to bury you in the ditch where the soil is soft and black, do you hear the insects, the breath of wind, do you think; what is eternity? What does eternity mean? Maybe the fleeting shadow when a plane passes, the sluggish rain. Can you perceive that I’m thinking about you, about how you no longer exist, that you no longer...


When the snow covers your grave you have forgotten the snow. Translation of “Impromptu.” Copyright 1994 by Rune Christiansen. By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright 2011 by Agnes Scott Langeland. All rights reserved.


I saw her again today. She came out from the liquor store in Majorstua, the bottles pushed down into a worn brown bag, and I sensed shame, shame is the only word I can use—shame. It was twenty years since I’d seen her last. Georg and I had been to the Frogner Baths. We’d taken the plunge from the tenth board for the first time and were a bit sore. But we were walking on air—by heck were we—we were world champs. Some girls from the same year at school had been standing by the...

The Pig

Asbjørn Hall was admitted to an Oslo hospital on December 4th, 2003, for an intestinal operation, a rather unpleasant business no one would look forward to. But Asbjørn Hall was seventy-eight and had never been ill before, barring minor complaints such as colds, toothache, and the occasional hangover. For that reason he realized now this was no more than to be expected; that's not saying he saw this as some punishment for a long and godless life—no, Asbjørn...

Today You Must Pray to God

One morning the teacher came in for the first class, sat down heavily on the chair behind his desk, looked around the room, and said: "Today you must pray to God, for today a nuclear war will probably break out." He cleared his throat, drew a breath, and said: "Nuclear war" once more, his double chin wobbled, and silence fell on the room. Nuclear war. Arvid had heard them talking about that at home so he knew what it meant. It meant curtains for everyone, in earnest. Uncle Rolf...

from “Identity”

You who will murder me, wait. Look into my eyes before you begin—or end— It's the same for me. It might be that you reconsider. You, who are formed by remorse whose breath is the issue of accident, imbibing the world's desiccation, wait a moment! Now, this may be enough: to read the soft body tortured by your wrath, to look at the memories hidden in my eyes, the moon's stories. * * * You, who will murder me, I have hidden my identity in my eyes. My last wish is...

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