Bergeners

by Tomas Espedal

Beretningen begynner i New York City, på det lekre Standard Hotel, og ender på Askanischer Hof i Berlin, et hotell som nok har sett bedre dager. Mellom verdensbyene er Bergen. Bergens gateløp og hus, og menneskene som går i dem og bor i dem. Med James Joyces Dubliners som diskré kunstnerisk reiseledsager går Tomas Espedal gatelangs i sin hjemby. Han noterer, reflekterer, skriver dagbok og tegner portretter av byen og menneskene der. Han skriver fortellinger og noveller, møter forfatterkolleger og andre bergensere. Han hører anekdoter og skriver brev. Han lengter ut, og han lengter hjem.

Genres: Fiction, Scandinavian Literature, Contemporary, Poetry, Literature, Roman, 21st Century

160 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 2013

About the author

Tomas Espedal er født i Bergen i 1961 og debuterte som forfatter i 1988.

Han er utdannet ved Universitetet i Bergen og har utgitt både romaner og kortprosasamlinger. I 1991 ble han prisbelønt i P2/Bokklubbens romankonkurranse for Hun og jeg. Han har vært initiativtager til Bergen Internasjonale Poesifestival. Tomas Espedal eksperimenter ofte med sjangeroverskridelser. Espedals senere utgivelser utforsker forholdet mellom romanen og sjangere som essay, brev, dagbok, selvbiografi og reiseskildring.

Espedals Gå. Eller kunsten å leve et vilt og poetisk liv (2006) ble nominert til Nordisk Råds Litteraturpris, og han ble på ny nominert for Imot kunsten (2009). Espedal ble også tildelt Kritikerprisen 2009 og Gyldendalprisen 2009.

Skjønnlitterære utgivelser:
Imot kunsten (notatbøkene). 2009
Gå. Eller kunsten å leve et vilt og poetisk liv. 2006
Brev (et forsøk). 2005
Dagbok (epitafer). 2003
Biografi (glemsel). 1999
Blond (erindring). 1996
Hotel Norge. 1995
Hun og jeg. 1991
Jeg vil bo i mitt navn. 1990 (Eide Forlag)
En vill flukt av parfymer. 1988 (Eide Forlag)

Priser og nominasjoner
2009: Gyldendalprisen
2009: Kritikerprisen
2009: Nominasjon Nordisk Råds litteraturpris
2006: Nominasjon Nordisk Råds litteraturpris
2006: Bergensprisen
1991: Prisbelønt i P2/Bokklubbens romankonkurranse

Salg til utlandet
Gå. Eller kunsten å leve et vilt og poetisk liv 2006
Danmark, Russland, Tyskland, Frankrike, Spania, Italia, Tsjekkia, England, USA, India
Imot kunsten (notatbøkene) 2009
Danmark, India, Storbritannia, USA

Reviews

[Kenny · Rating 5 out of 5]

Being alone does not make you lonely.
Bergeners ~~~ Tomas Espedal



I absolutely love this book. Part essay, poetry, impressions and travelogue, Tomas Espedal's small, charming book gives tremendous pleasure. The writing is sparse, gorgeous, and crystal clear. The language is magical.

Espedal's book is autobiographical snapshots, here and there of his boyhood, youth, relationships, travels, and loneliness ; there are descriptions from the social world in Bergen, as well as her history. There are gossipy bits on artists that have passed in and out of Epedal’s world that help to flesh out this world.



Bergeners is the most Joycean book I’ve read not written by Joyce. Bergeners is a mix of many different styles, each addresses the literary environment and people of Bergen, much same as Joyce does in Dubliners. The title of Espedal’s book is a nod to Joyce. While the style of Bergeners is quite different from Joyce’s book, both are rich in zesty characters in each city.



The section where he writes about being a literary teacher in a prison is utterly fascinating. This is Espedal at his most humane. "Oh, that's a shame," he says, as he finds out that the greatest writing talent in his class has not come to the hour because he has escaped from prison.

I also enjoyed the tales from Espedal’s youth ~~ feeling, freakish as his parents fail to see he has become a man, physically, a hirsute beast at 15. A simple latch hook on his door became his savior. As he went through life, doors and keys and locks were to become his protectors.



Espedal is not well know in the United States. But I think Espedal is not interested in becoming a popular author. He wants to be a writer. Fame is not his goal here, quality is.

[Edita · Rating 5 out of 5]

At night he knows only the loneliness that lies down beside him in the bed and keeps him awake.

At night he knows only this darkness that keeps him awake. He gets out of bed and sits on the balcony. He lights a cigarette. He drinks from the bottle under the chair. He looks over the roofs of the houses and the patios with garden flowers that glow faintly in
the darkness, towards a stronger light in the harbour; an arc of light around the bay where cabin cruisers gleam reflecting street lamps and restaurants on the promenade. He’s placed a small table on the balcony. Each night he sits in the dark and writes in a notebook. He can’t see what he’s writing. He scribbles down letters blindly, in the dark, the black letters vanish as soon as he writes them. He fills page after page, hour after hour, he writes to pass the time; he can neither see nor read what he writes.

The letters, the words, the sentences vanish as he writes them.

And he, the writer, vanishes too.

*
Sit at the little writing table that I’ve pushed over to the window; the window opens like a door, you open the door and look out over a large, open square. There are benches in the square and trees, al fresco dining beneath red canopies, you hear voices and watch people come and go, crossing the square, alone or in pairs, in groups, a group of friends
and girlfriends, families, once an entire class of schoolchildren in uniform, white shirts and black trousers, white blouses and black skirts, and the small, black heads bent to one another and making a shrill, bright sound that filled the square, until the teacher blew a whistle and there was silence. Then you could hear the wind again, the wind in the treetops, you could hear the birds and the cars in the distance and the subdued voices of the people dining outside which now and then were cut off by a passing beggar: he took his stand by the outermost table and, in a cracked, weepy voice, sang out his story.
*
From the window of the room at Hotel S. Anselmo, on the second floor, you can see right into a lime tree. It’s as if you’re sitting behind the curtain to expose the tree’s secret. One of its branches grows towards the window and scratches the pane when the wind blows. If the window was kept open, the branch would grow into the hotel room. The lime-tree branch would spread inside the room, its leaves would unfurl, it would turn to winter, spring, and there, hidden behind the curtain, you imagine how the tree and the seasons would take over the empty room.
*
First a sniff of wind, and then the wind comes, damp and cold, it’s a fresh, good wind. The wind comes like a good, much-needed breath from another place. The wind comes from the sea. The wind comes from the sun, from the clouds, from the mountains, from west or north, the wind comes like a harbinger. Here comes the wind. It touches the hair and face. It pulls at jackets and trousers and pushes us along the city streets. The wind comes like a harbinger of rain.
*
After more than two years alone
it suddenly struck him
it struck him like a thunderbolt
in the night one night
at Ronda
where he’d gone to get a real taste
of loneliness
that he was meant to be alone
in order to be together with her
for the rest of his life.
It was possible
in the hardest way
in the cruellest way
to be together with her
if he was alone.

Alone
for the rest of his life
yes
without her
for the rest of his life
with her
it was possible.
*
Destroy, she says.

She drinks a cup of tea. She eats an apple. She cuts the apple into pieces with a knife. The sun shines through the kitchen window. It’s Sunday. Sunday’s the hardest day. To be tough. To be certain. To be alone. Don’t phone, don’t doubt, don’t repent, don’t
cry, don’t say anything to anyone. Stretch out the distance between them like an elastic band and hold the band taught, until the distance becomes permanent. Until the distance is so hard and tight that she can’t see him clearly any more: He becomes indistinct, he
becomes smaller, weak, no, not too weak, or she’ll feel sorry for him. She feels sorry for him. She might say: My future, my life, my body, can’t belong to one man.
*
He’s waiting for his broken heart to mend, but it doesn’t. When she moved out of the house, he fell into a kind of stupor; love is one of the most beautiful things, but it can also destroy a person.

[Joseph Schreiber · Rating 4 out of 5]

A middle-aged writer's reflection on his home town and its residents, bookended by a meditation on love, loss and loneliness, this is my first experience with Espedal. Self-focused, perhaps but much more spare and varied in style than his fellow countryman Karl Ove who also appears on the pages of this novel, as do many other writers.
A more extensive review can be found here: https://roughghosts.com/2018/05/21/th...

[Angélique Moreau · Rating 4 out of 5]

When will Tomas Espedal get over his heartache? Knowing how the man needs the physical nearness of his loved ones as much as he needs air, books, words and his legs to travel with: probably not before a long time.
This book of an indefinite style is a different take on James Joyce's Dubliners, or on Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway: so much more than vignettes as we walk with “I” or “He” around capitals and villages, letting our thoughts stream freely; prose, poetry, diary, the dreamless sleep of silence.

The constant (and trademark) name-dropping allows to identify Tomas Espedal as the epicentre of the Norwegian (if not Scandinavian) literary scene; he knows everyone, parties hard, loves like a young man. The scenes he paints are honest, name-droppingly honest. Maybe not the reflection of the average Ola "Joe" Norwegian's lifestyle, as they are surprinsigly deprived of any kind of references (okay, just one) to that time he spent working in a factory, before committing high-treason against his working-class heritage by becoming an intellectual, Buddenbrook-style.
In between the parentheses of losing his love in a hotel and unknowingly sleeping under the same roof as her on the other side of the world, long after, Tomas relates stories, dedicated to people he knows. Some stories we have heard before, some are new; most deal with the art of writing, that organic craft that, in his case, as far as I can perceive, is mostly a way of dealing with things by dwelling on them, over and over again, painting or weaving the same motifs on that canvas, than a mere narrative tool. The beauty of Espedal resides for me in the language, that is probably lost in translation, but possesses poetic qualities that help avoid repetitions. Moving out, missing home, fleeing away again. Repeat 'til death, maybe in a speeding car, in an Eastern European country he had fantasized about, but that ignores all about the Norwegian slowness.
One of those stories deals with Knausgård, and more than one passage deal with Breivik, an interesting read for people who were not in Norway at the time, desperately calling their friends in Oslo and waking up the next day to see flags at half-mast, all over the country.

If you wonder why I gave only four stars to this book here, here is why: when the book came out, I stumbled upon a very negative literary review, in which the author felt that Espedal's writing stipend was probably coming to an end, which prompted him to paste together in haste whatever pieces of writing he could find in his drawers and having them published as a book.
Though I still do not agree with the tone of the review, I understand after reading how one could feel that. Not chaotic enough for the mess to appear more than contrived, not united enough through a chronological, thematic or stylistic progression to really go somewhere. Maybe that is the mind of somebody driven mad by heartache? Don't ask me.

I love this though.
The book opens on a memory of going fishing in the river near Storehesten, in Sogn of Fjordane. Later on in his wanderings through the streets of Bergen, Espedal relates how he would begin on top of the university hill, and then follow the street down to a little café, usually quite deserted, and sit there.
Two years ago for the first time, I sat on the shuttle bus leaving from my then home-place Dale I Sunnfjord, taking me to Sande, past the end of the fjord over which Storehesten towers. After three hours on the bus and the ferry, I was in Bergen, rolling my suitcase behind me to the hotel where I had booked a room. I turned to look right. Through the window of the deserted café, I saw Tomas Espedal sitting, looking out at me.
I have been to that café since and sat in the same seat. The tiny brass-plate on the table bore my lucky number 17.
His books are the only ones I have ever read that make me feel that I am a character in them, caught in the flow of things, a Bergener, like many others, whereas through birth (like him) or adoption (like me).


^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^

Quand Tomas Espedal guérira-t-il de son chagrin d'amour? En sachant que l'homme a besoin de la proximité physique des gens qu'il aime autant qu'il a besoin d'air, de livres, de mots et de ses jambes pour voyager: probablement pas avant longtemps.
Ce livre au style indéfini est une reprise des Dubliners de James Joyce, ou de Mrs Dalloway de Virginia Woolf: beaucoup plus que de simples vignettes tandis que nous suivons “Je” ou “Il” à travers les capitales et les villages, laissant libre cours à nos pensées; prose, poésie, journal, le sommeil sans rêves du silence.

Le name-dropping constant (mais c'est habituel chez lui) permet d'identifier Tomas Espedal comme l’épicentre de la scène littéraire norvégienne (si ce n'est scandinave); il connaît tout le monde, fait souvent la fête, aime comme un jeune homme. Les scènes qu'il décrit sont honnêtes, au point de donner des noms. Elles ne correspondent pas vraiment au style de vie des norvégiens moyens, puisque, pour une fois et c'est assez surprenant, il ne mentionne qu'une seule fois le temps qu'il a passé à travailler dans une usine, avant de commettre un acte de trahison impardonnable envers son héritage ouvrier pour devenir un intellectuel, un déclin familial à la Buddenbrook.
Entre les parenthèses qui le voient perdre son amour dans un hôtel et se retrouver sans le savoir à dormir sous le même toit qu'elle à l'autre bout du monde, Tomas raconte des histoires, dédiées à des gens qu'il connaît. Certaines histoires, nous les connaissons déjà, d'autres sont nouvelles; la plupart explorent l'art d’écrire, le fait que c'est un art organique qui, dans son cas, pour autant qu'on puisse en juger, lui permet de se libérer des choses en y revenant, encore et encore, peignant ou tissant les mêmes motifs sur la toile; c'est plus qu'un outil narratif. La beauté d'Espedal réside selon moi dans le langage, dont une partie est probablement perdue à la traduction, mais qui possède des qualités poétiques qui aident à éviter les répétitions. Déménager, vouloir rentrer, fuir à nouveau. Répétez jusqu’à ce que mort s'ensuive, peut-être dans une voiture lancée à folle allure, dans un pays d'Europe de l'est dont il s’était imaginé toutes sortes de choses, mais qui ignore la lenteur norvégienne.
L'une de ces histoires traite de Knausgård, et plus d'un passage parle de Breivik, une lecture intéressante pour ceux qui n’étaient pas en Norvège à l’époque, appelant désespérément leurs amis à Oslo et se réveillant le lendemain matin pour voir les drapeaux en berne, tout autour du pays.
Si vous vous demandez pourquoi je n'ai donné que quatre étoiles à ce livre ici, voici la raison: quand le livre est sorti, je suis tombée sur une critique littéraire très négative, dont l'auteur trouvait qu'Espedal arrivait probablement à la fin de sa bourse d’écrivain, et s'est vu forcé de coller ensemble en toute hâte tout ce qu'il a pu trouver dans ses tiroirs, et a fait publier tout ceci sous forme de livre.
Même si je ne suis toujours pas d'accord avec le ton de cette chronique, je comprends maintenant pourquoi on pourrait penser cela. Le livre n'est pas assez chaotique pour que le désordre apparaisse plus que forcé, mais pas assez uni non plus par une progression chronologique, thématique ou stylistique pour que cela aille vraiment quelque part. Peut-être est-ce ainsi que l'esprit d'une personne rendue folle par un chagrin d'amour erre? Je ne sais pas.

Mais écoutez plutôt ça.
Le livre s'ouvre sur le souvenir d'une partie de pêche près de la montagne Storehesten, dans le Sogn og Fjordane. Plus tard, flânant à travers les rues de Bergen, Espedal raconte qu'il aime partir du sommet de l’université, pour descendre la rue vers un petit café, généralement désert, et s'asseoir là.
Il y a deux ans pour la première fois, je grimpais dans la navette qui partait du village où je vivais alors, Dale I Sunnfjord, pour me conduire à Sande, au bout du fjord sur lequel Storehesten domine. Après trois heures de bus et de bateau, je me retrouvai à Bergen, à traîner derrière moi ma valise pour rejoindre l’hôtel où j'avais réservé une chambre. Je tournai la tête vers la droite. À travers la fenêtre du café désert, je vis Tomas Espedal, assis, qui me regardait.
Je suis allée depuis à ce café, et me suis assise à cette place. La petite plaque de cuivre visée sur la table porte mon numéro fétiche, le 17.
Ses livres sont les seuls que j'ai pu lire qui me donnent l'impression d’être un personnage à l’intérieur d'eux, prises dans le flot de la vie, une habitante de Bergen, comme tant d'autres, que ce soit de naissance (comme lui) ou d'adoption (comme moi).

[M. Sarki · Rating 2 out of 5]

https://msarki.tumblr.com/post/167619...

The weakest book in Espedal’s oeuvre. Fits and starts that end in disappointment. A sadness deeply expressed being his only achievement. What began with so much promise dissolves into disinterest and eventual boredom. A sentence here and there enough to titillate and then nothing to follow. Late in the book are feeble attempts at writing poetry. And because Espedal is held in such high esteem it is a travesty this book was ever published. It may be the writer has nothing left to say. Let’s hope not for goodness’ sake.

[René Paquin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Le premier livre traduit en français du Norvégien Tomas Espedal, MARCHER, s'était révélé un vraie surprise. Aussi, quand j'ai vu qu'un nouveau "roman" venait de paraître, je me suis précipité. Roman? Probablement ce que j'ai lu de plus hétérogène depuis un moment: mélange de nouvelles, de poèmes, de récit personnel, l'auteur explore sa ville natale, Bergen, deuxième ville de Norvège après la capitale Oslo, à travers ses habitants, tristes petits bourgeois de province, sa géographie, ses quartiers, ses écrivains comme ses poètes et enfin, les femmes qu'il a aimées, sans les nommer. Mais il ne ne se contente pas de Bergen: il aime explorer Madrid, l'Italie, le Danemark et la Suède. Les dècors changent, mais l'écriture reste la même: dépouillée et sans fioriture, l'auteur suggère de très subtile manière les émotions, en ne décrivant que la réalité.
A qui conseiller ce livre? Je ne sais pas, peut-être aux lecteurs qui ont aimé Karl Ove Knausgaard, sûrement aux passionnés de littérature. Parce que ce roman en est un d'un écrivain, solide, en pleine maîtrise de son écriture. Il y a longtemps qu'un roman ne m'a autant touché.

[Henrik · Rating 4 out of 5]

Espedal er én av to bergensere jeg liker, og jeg liker ham ikke mindre etter denne boka. Den særegne skrivestilen, det (e)spedalske, er noe helt spesielt. Noe særegent. Noe unorsk. Han er åpenbart veldig belest. Det er noe tidløst over ham, noe grenseløst. Han kunne like gjerne ha vært fra et annet land. Et hvilket som helst land. Skrivestilen er tilsynelatende ganske enkel, men samtidig ikke. Han framstår som en plaget og uharmonisk person, og det kan det bli god litteratur ut av. I dette tilfelle gjør det dét. Betraktningene hans om stort og smått, spesielt smått, blir stort. Noe sier meg at han er påvirket av betydningsfulle filosofer. Han har teft for å skrive, godeste Tomas.

[Iona Stewart · Rating 5 out of 5]

Espedal is a noted Norwegian writer who has won a literary award and been nominated for the Nordic Council Literature Prize.

The title refers to the inhabitants of Bergen, the second-largest city in Norway, termed its “intellectual capital”, and the author’s home town.

I read the book in Danish as owing to the Corona crisis the libraries weren’t functioning properly and I couldn’t order books in English. The original was in Norwegian.

Espedal has his own particular style of writing, and I love it.

But the book is not just about the people of Bergen but about anything that catches Espedal’s attention. He writes about the way he feels, what he eats, what he does in the course of the day, the women he’s involved with and whether or not he’s able to write.

He uses repetition as a means of accentuating his meaning.

He’s not afraid to describe his life honestly, though his style of life is perhaps much to be desired.

He discusses other writers, famous and lesser-known, and their works.

He tells us about Maud and Frode. Maud is a prostitute he becomes involved with –

“I quickly became addicted to her. And at the same time as I began to show my feelings, the first evening I told her I needed her, that I wanted to see her again, she took great pains to tell me how many men she had known and how many she still knew; she recited diverse names, names of men I knew, a minister of the church, a musician, a writer, an artist, and a number of names I didn’t know, it was a long list of names and now I was one of the names.

She liked to see me furious, jealous, in despair.

She liked to see me weak, it made her feel good, it made her strong.”

Frode begins to call Espedal at night when he’s drunk. He says he’s Maud’s boyfriend and “he knew what I did with his girlfriend and how I did it with his girlfriend, he yelled it into the phone. Curses and insults and obscenities in a bellowing screed of English and Norwegian and an incomprehensible language that turned into snuffling and tears and occasionally a howl”.

It turned out Frode was a drug addict who could be dangerous, he beat up Maud and was convicted of assault against her; he had never been her boyfriend and terrorized those she had been with.

He recounts the whole story about Maud and Frode and also Karl Ove, another man Frode rings to at night.

Espedal sometimes writes in a unique, strange poetry-like style, with parts of the sentences at the right of the age, which is a bit distracting and hard to understand.

Sometimes he changes between the 3rd and 1st person when writing about himself (presumably).

Some of the sections of the book are dedicated to specific women.

He travels the world and writes about the cities he visits and the hotels he stays in.

Much of his writing revolves around finding flats and rooms in which he can write. He has lived in cheap flats and in inferior rooms; some of the rooms were so bad that he got a rash on his face and on his body, others gave him breathing problems and insomnia.

He moved from one hopeless place to the next where he could write whenever and wherever he wanted. Then he moved to a perfect flat he took over from his sister and lived there for two years; he had never seen a more beautiful living-room; but he couldn’t write there, not a single novel, not a single short story.

Eventually, in the middle of the book, he did get round to writing about Bergen and the Bergeners.

He states that a writer must describe the town he lives in, the time he lives in, friends, discussions, politics, loneliness. And that is what he does. “Everything we write must be true and we must describe reality with all the earnestness and strength we have.”

He writes a section on loneliness:

“You don’t get lonely from being alone, it’s when you’ve grown used to living with your partner and child and all that surrounds you of family and friends, it’s when you suddenly lose everything you’ve come to love and become dependent on it, that’s when you become lonely.”

If you appreciate good literature/writing, try this book, or others by Tomas Espedal. I find his style of writing unique and addictive.

[Marte Ekker Kristiansen · Rating 4 out of 5]

Vakkert og elegant skildra om en slags flanør-skikkelse og hans tidvise ensomhet. Spennende å lese når man har Dubliners av Joyce i bakhuet. Bergen er visst byen man både hater å elske, og elsker å hate. Skal lese mer av Espedal fremover. Det funker virkelig med dagbok-formatet.

[Bara · Rating 4 out of 5]

4/5*

"...Nemam vise sto dati
osim ove odsutnosti
zbog koje je moguce
da ti pripadam..."

[Hedda · Rating 4 out of 5]

gjorde meg enda mer glad i bergen, om mulig. gjorde meg også litt deprimert.

[Claudia_Elisabeth · Rating 3 out of 5]

3,5 *

[Karoline Sperrevik · Rating 4 out of 5]

Tidvis genial, av og til litt teit

[Henrik Skovli · Rating 4 out of 5]

En god bok med driv,
men litt skuffende etter å ha lest «gå.»

[Oliver Holm · Rating 2 out of 5]

Fragmentarisk selvoptagethed bestående af ulige dele autobiografi, rejsebeskrivelser, poesi, breve, essays ... men hvorfor denne sammenkogning af genrer, forstår jeg ikke. Når selvoptagetheden er bedst, indfanger den bittesmå sandheder om f.eks. togtransport. Når den er værst, går det op i namedropping, forfatterisme og træg tristhed.

[Tuva Pipilotti · Rating 5 out of 5]

Espedal, fin som alltid
Litt mye om Bergen jeg ikke kan relatere meg til, litt mye om kjærlighet jeg kan relatere meg til, så da går d vel opp i opp?

"Hun må lage seg noen helt nye bevegelser, sine helt egne alenebevegelser."

"Bare det å stå opp av sengen, det er som å sette beina på landjorda etter en lang sjøreise. Grunne gynger, eller er det beina, de skjelver. Man befinner seg langt borte fra der hvor man var igår."

[Han Far · Rating 4 out of 5]

3,5. Jeg runder opp. Godt språk som alltid.

[Stine · Rating 3 out of 5]

Note to self: spørre mamma om hun kjente til han her fra barndommens gater

[Louis Thommessen · Rating 3 out of 5]

Bergen ja.

[Tobias Cramer · Rating 3 out of 5]

Jeg kan ikke finde ud af, om jeg rigtig kan lide Tomas Espedal eller ej. Hans bøger fremstår rodede, inkonsekvente, sammenflikkede og ufærdige. Det er for sin vis irriterende, men på den anden side understøtter det lige præcis det Espedal gør bedst. Han skriver sig ind i livets helt små snefnug.
Han tydeliggør, at vores hukommelse og erfaring ikke er lineær. Vi hopper rundt i tid og sted. Vi husker fem, ti, syv, tyve år tilbage. Vi roder selv rundt og derfor er hans bøger også rodede.

Men er det det litteraturen skal? Skal den spejle livet? Eller skal den løfte sig over det?
Bergeners er for sin vis både smuk og tankevækkende, så helt skidt er det ikke.

[Marian · Rating 5 out of 5]

WOW! Dette var litt av en opplevelse. Denne lille boka frembringer store ting - i språk og bilder, i fortelling og i meg om leser. Jeg likte særlig godt det han skriver fra Roma, om Hellemyrsfolket, om nøkler, om ikke å få skrive i vakre hjem. Og om ensomhet. Bare hør på dette:

Jeg betrodde meg en gang til en venn (min eneste) og sa at jeg var ensom. Han ropte straks tilbake: Du vet ingenting om hva ensomhet er!

Den ensomme tror ikke andre kjenner ensomheten; han er alene om det å være ensom.

[Ragnar Liaskar · Rating 4 out of 5]

I denne kjærlighetserklæringen til egen hjemby, Bergen, får vi en lekende Espedal, en reisende Espedal. Reisende både i egen by og i verden.

Jeg har selv bodd de fleste av mine voksne år i Bergen og dette sa så mye om bergensere:

Familien Aarø er på bilferie i Italia "I Roma, på Petersplassen, møtte de tilfeldig en bergensfamilie som også var på bilferie i Italia. Hvilken rute kjørte dere ned hit, spurte Richard med sin aller stolteste bergensdialekt. Vi kjørte over Kvamskogen, svarte den andre sjåføren."

Det er rett og slett bergensere i et nøtteskall :)

[David Svinth · Rating 5 out of 5]

Når man først har læst en håndfuld af Espedals bøger, sker der stort set ikke noget nyt; det er de samme temaer, han kredser om. Det er i orden, for han gør det i en unik stil og tone, som rammer mig uventet hårdt hver gang.

[Simen Gunerius Jørgensen · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Hold da kæft".
Hadde det vært mulig, 6 stjerner...
Takk for anbefalingen Marian:)

[Lee Klein · Rating 4 out of 5]

Loved the first half of this, before the focus turned to Bergen randos wherein/upon I felt like the quality fell off somewhat. It really can't compare to Dubliners -- not sure why the flap copy even dares that comparison. It starts with the image of a waterfall and the salmon trying to jump through the powerful cascading water -- it seems impossible but they do it -- and this is understood as an organizing emotional, psychological, spiritual parallel for the author's dual pursuit of successful (not in terms of $) art and life. It's best away from Bergen, in that huge hotel (The Standard) that straddles the High Line in Chelsea, NYC, or in Madrid where he's gone to hide from journalists after KOK describes an incident at Espedal's apartment in Book Five (great bit about Dag Solstad all in white rushing across busy streets), or when he wanders through woods in Italy to an older American writer's house, a writer who blames his idyllic home for not being able to write. And then it really takes off when he describes his relation with an unhinged artistic woman and her insane painter boyfriend -- and then his version of the event related to the rape allegations against Knausgaard . But there's also half-baked poetry like streaming waterfall text and the bits about Bergen that don't quite compare to the rest of it. Generally, I'm a fan of Espedal, recognize him as someone doing something similar to what I've been trying to do in the past five years or so, and will read everything else he has in English translation probably before the summer. Considering that his language seems comparatively spare, I sense that I might even be able to take a shot at reading some of his stuff in the original Norwegian in a year or so.

[Roland Hassel · Rating 3 out of 5]

För att vara en författare mest känd för att berätta om sig själv (?) berättar Espedal egentligen ganska lite om sig själv. Ständigt dold, även de människor han omger sig med är dolda, ständigt melankolisk. Istället framförallt rum, rum i hotell, i lägenheter och hus, rum, hus och landskap och Espedal i dessa rum, hus och landskap, melankolisk, i reflektion över livet, tiden, förlusten, ensamheten. Man får bara små glimtar, men ibland glimmande glimtar, skärande glimmande glimtar, men det är långt mellan dem och de trängs också med en del klyschor och nötta insikter. När han faktiskt släpper in en, som när han berättar om den sorgliga och märkliga kärlekshistoria han och Knausgård råkat fastna i är det genuint bra, men det är få såna stycken, i övrigt är det mest bara glimtar.

[Niels Philbert · Rating 3 out of 5]

My first encounter with Espedal and I found it a mix of interesting presentation of the loneliest sides in life and observations about the big in the trivial.

A whole lot about cigarettes.

My biggets quip is the underlying privilige that the author and his social circle enjoys and seems to take for granted. That made it hard for me to feel sympathy and engage on a emotional level.

So eventhough I am left with a feeling of being unsatisfied narratively, I'm also curious to read more.

[Hildegunn Hodne · Rating 4 out of 5]

A wonderful book. It is a love story to the city of Bergen in Norway. And of travels abroad and in the country, and feelings of homesickness to Bergen. Having been there, I could walk with the story, see everything as internal images. It is also, as always with Tomas Espedal, filled with a deeply felt sorrow. The aching pain of love lost. The book is wonderful in all its painfulness.

[Michael Lauritsen · Rating 4 out of 5]

At times, his phrases and sentences are perfect, beautiful and captures thoughts, feelings, reality with precision.
But I must admit I got lost from time to time, especially during the Rome poems but also at other passages.
I must also say that the whole lovesick atmosphere about the book stays with you afterwards. Very glad to have read it.
One of my best four star books ..

[Mette W. · Rating 2 out of 5]

ikke min kop te. store dele er eller minder om digte, som aldrig har sagt mig ret meget. Enkelte passager er fint skrevet. Men jeg sidder med en fornemmelse af "hvad er meningen med den bog?".
Som privat dagbog giver den mening for mig. Ikke som bog.
Men Tomas Espedal og jeg ser heller ikke ens på ret meget, fornemmer jeg......