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Articles tagged "Sweden"

Bret Easton Ellis and Other Dogs

After a week or two there was no avoiding the fact that Paco Parra wanted Muriel all to himself. That was why he recommended a different beach to me, a beach that lay a bit further away; all you had to do was take the bus to the next village. Muriel shrugged her shoulders and said it was only for a few days, then he had to go off on a job and we would be alone again. So each day after breakfast I took the bus for about a kilometer. I had books and magazines with me and there was a bar right...

From “The Memory of a Secret”

What do we know about our parents? They’re never anything but parents. They do what parents do, listen but never speak. Help you up but they themselves stay down. One day you’ll start to wonder who they are. Those people who’ve always just been there. You realize that you don’t know what they’re thinking about in their beds at night. You don’t know what they dream about. Your memories don’t provide any answers, they can’t reveal their true...

Mine-Wife

May 8, 1991 Inez, First of all I must apologize for not answering your letters or phone calls. I was in hospital for a while, and I've been ill on and off ever since. Every bout makes it harder to handle everyday life. Staying in touch with friends and family becomes almost impossible. But it was never my intention to drive you away. I hope you understand. In any case, I've seen your name in the newspapers every now and then. I'm glad you've been able to make your dream...

from “The Boys”

It was a balmy night, spring had started to slip into early summer, the trees’ leaves were thick and bright green. We didn’t speak, we only looked each other in the eyes and received the paper bags that Momo ceremoniously handed to us. And when I opened my bag in Bella’s room, my heart started beating so fast it hammered in my ears. She had made me a tiger costume. There was a hooded coat and a pair of elbow-length gloves, the tip of each finger adorned with a golden...

My Favorite Bookstore: Magdalena Sorensen on Hedengren’s

Hedengrens Bokhandel, Stureplan 4, Sturegallerian, Postadress: Box 5509, 114 85 STOCKHOLM   In the most elegant part of the polished city of Stockholm, in the city’s financial center, in a luxurious mall called Sturegallerian, there’s a dark, slightly dusty place where you get no music, no shiny white surfaces, no two-for-one-deals, no espresso machine. It’s a bookstore and it’s called Hedengrens.   When you enter Hedengrens on street level, you are greeted by hanging...

To a Young Man Who Arrived at the Party Dressed in a Lady’s Fur

  When you got to the party, sent by God knows whom—contingency, probably—wearing only a lady’s fur, at the outset closed, though only thrown on, shut but unbuttoned,  nothing else on and totally bonkers like some awesome Saturday night exotic dancer at the apocalypse, then, implausibly, the mood softened;  goddamned obnoxious, obviously, but also with a waft of honesty from your naked lodging in that savage cloak, soaked in the skin’s...

Inferno

We had just moved into an apartment in the suburbs, with all the hassle of fetching and carrying and doing the sorts of things that you really wouldn’t bother with if you didn’t feel socially obliged to. On the seventh day after we had moved in, my wife said we must go to IKEA to buy an armchair that would go better with the sofa than our old one. I didn’t raise any objections, though I could see absolutely nothing wrong with our existing chair. “Remember the...

1956

So much of this happened in basements, in thick woolen sweaters, in B major but with strong passages in minor. On the outskirts. That’s where we were from but our thoughts had wings like the pigeons and like them tried to find urban quarters where the life of the spirit was more shaded, fluttering over stone walls heavy with history. The shadow-play of thoughts exposed what words concealed, that no love is as strong as the one that goes unrequited. A gentle drizzle fell...

Finnish


Finland-Swedish


Swedish


(“Lengua”: María Zambrano)

The word's dawn is meaning's night I walk in springtime. The wild, strange, violent spring. Birdsong. The beginning of everything, verdure that seems to levitate. Death with a cig in its long holder Chiastic life Aristotle's reason, Parmenides' vision In every word beyond day and night, birth and death this attestation of the unspeakable. A pearl that goes from mouth to mouth. I shall bow down over the dead woman's body there in the...

(“Analogia”)

This poem could be a face Not the right one, but the true one. Analogies deal with relationships that hold. It Speaks. The poem's similarity to the face consists, among other things, in the poet's capacity to see it from inside and struggle to regard it as an outsider. Without ever entirely succeeding. A mirror might be helpful. In Pindar's seventh Nemean Ode he compares song to a mirror. Memory's. The face A sounding mirror. The poem. A mirror of sound....

(“Parousía”)

Our time, why shouldn't I go backward into the moment with my trembling preferences, my restless desire, my thought's uttermost solitude? When I blink I usually see my mother, sitting on the sofa with a book, the gaze from her eyes full of shimmering darkness. Am I filling you up? Maybe you could slap me or kiss me or stick a finger in one of my orifices or in some other way connect yourself to my body. I feel rather like the hand of John of Damascus, cut off...

from “The Moment for Pindar Is a Small Space in Time”

(Analogia) This poem could be a face Not the right one, but the true one. Analogies deal with relationships that hold. It Speaks. The poem's similarity to the face consists, among other things, in the poet's capacity to see it from inside and struggle to regard it as an outsider. Without ever entirely succeeding. A mirror might be helpful. In Pindar's seventh Nemean Ode he compares song to a mirror. Memory's. The face A sounding mirror. The...

The Referee

Fernström would remember later that he had been thinking back to his own playing career while driving through the city that morning. He had felt restless all autumn, but without understanding why. The previous evening, after an early dinner, he told Marjut and Jere that he needed a breath of fresh air, and then he got into the old dark blue Escort, even though he had drunk several glasses of wine with the fish. He had driven from their home in Alppila down to the beach between...

from Splendorville

Splendorville is set in the 1920s and written from the perspective of a youngish woman, Dr. Esparto, who lost her mother early and was brought up by a tribe in the desert of North Africa where her archaeologist father was busy with excavations. After training as a doctor, Esparto has as the novel opens been in general practice in a small town in the desert for some years. She has a close friend in the local police chief, Fred, who like her is of European origin (he is from France) in a...

The Pomegranate Lady and Her Sons

Mehrabad Airport, Tehran. Air France, flight 726 I hate this life of constant wandering, these eternal comings and goings, these middle of the night flights, dragging along my suitcase, going through Customs and the final torture, the humiliating body search. "Take off your shoes, open your handbag, let's see inside of your pockets, your mouth, your ears, your nostrils, your heart and mind and soul." I am exhausted. I feel homesick—can you believe it? Already homesick. And yet...

The Book about Blanche and Marie by Per Olov Enquist

In Andrè Brouillet's famous painting of neurologist Jean-Martin Charcot's lecture on female hysteria, a woman is draped over Charcot's assistant's arm. She is placid and completely sensual in the cold room; her dress has fallen from her shoulders and a nurse reaches out to help her as she swoons. This woman is Blanche Wittman, the favorite hysteria patient of Charcot, the head of the women's psychiatric hospital. Brouillet's painting was the only existing...

A Friend of the Archangel

When Gabriel left his country for the first time he was 55 years old. At first he thought he was lucky to have escaped the communist hell. In his own city of Sighet it had become impossible for him to practice his watch-repair trade. His shop, like many other private enterprises, was confiscated by the state and he was forced to work for many years as a night watchman. His wife Lea-who had been deported to Transnistria in her youth-insisted they emigrate to Israel, but when they finally...

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