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SELF CONTROL EBK
The second volume in Stig Sæterbakken’s loosely connected “S Trilogy,” Self-Control moves from the dark portrait of codependent marriage featured in the
acclaimed Siamese to a world of solitary loneliness and repression. Faced with virtual
invisibility—for no matter what actions he takes, the world seems to take no
notice—Andreas Feldt is cut adrift from the certainties of his life and forced to navigate
through a society where it seems virtually everyone is only one loss of self-control
away from an explosion of dissatisfaction and rage.
- GenresFictionNovelsLiterature
154 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1998
6 people are currently reading
172 people want to read
About the author
Stig Sæterbakken
48 books65 followersStig Sæterbakken was a Norwegian author. He published his first book at the age of 18, a collection of poems called Floating Umbrellas, while still attending Lillehammer Senior High School. In 1991, Sæterbakken released his first novel, Incubus, followed by The New Testament in 1993. Aestethic Bliss (1994) collected five years of work as an essayist.
Sæterbakken returned to prose in 1997 with the novel Siamese, which marks a significant departure in his style. The following year saw the release of Self-Control. And in 1999, he published Sauermugg. The three books, the S-trilogy—as they are often called—were published in a collected edition in 2000.
In February 2001, Sæterbakken's second collection of essays, The Evil Eye was released. As with Aestethic Bliss this book also represents a summing up and a closing of a new phase in the authorship. In many ways the essays throw light on Sæterbakken's own prose over the last years, the S-trilogy in particular.
Siamese was released in Sweden by Vertigo. Vertigo followed up with a translation of Sauermugg in April 2007. This edition, however, was different from the Norwegian original. It included some of the later published Sauermugg-monologues, together with left overs from the time the book was written, about 50 pages of new material all together. The expanded edition was entitled Sauermugg Redux. Siamese has since been translated into Danish, Czech and English.
Sæterbakken's last books were the novels The Visit, Invisible Hands, and Don't Leave Me. He was awarded the Osloprisen (Oslo Prize) in 2006 for The Visit. Invisible Hands was nominated for both the P2-listener's Novel prize and Youth's Critics' Prize in 2007. The same year he was awarded the Critics Prize and Bokklubbene's Translationprize for his translation of Nikanor Teratologen's Eldreomsorgen i Øvre Kågedalen.
Sæterbakken was artistic director of The Norwegian Festival of Literature from 2006 until October 2008, when he resigned owing to the controversy which arose when David Irving was invited to the festival in 2009.
Sæterbakken's books were released and translated in several countries, among them Russia and US. April 2009 Flamme Forlag released an essay by Sæterbakken, in their series of book-singles, called Yes. No. Yes.
Sæterbakken committed suicide on January 24, 2012, aged 46.
Sæterbakken returned to prose in 1997 with the novel Siamese, which marks a significant departure in his style. The following year saw the release of Self-Control. And in 1999, he published Sauermugg. The three books, the S-trilogy—as they are often called—were published in a collected edition in 2000.
In February 2001, Sæterbakken's second collection of essays, The Evil Eye was released. As with Aestethic Bliss this book also represents a summing up and a closing of a new phase in the authorship. In many ways the essays throw light on Sæterbakken's own prose over the last years, the S-trilogy in particular.
Siamese was released in Sweden by Vertigo. Vertigo followed up with a translation of Sauermugg in April 2007. This edition, however, was different from the Norwegian original. It included some of the later published Sauermugg-monologues, together with left overs from the time the book was written, about 50 pages of new material all together. The expanded edition was entitled Sauermugg Redux. Siamese has since been translated into Danish, Czech and English.
Sæterbakken's last books were the novels The Visit, Invisible Hands, and Don't Leave Me. He was awarded the Osloprisen (Oslo Prize) in 2006 for The Visit. Invisible Hands was nominated for both the P2-listener's Novel prize and Youth's Critics' Prize in 2007. The same year he was awarded the Critics Prize and Bokklubbene's Translationprize for his translation of Nikanor Teratologen's Eldreomsorgen i Øvre Kågedalen.
Sæterbakken was artistic director of The Norwegian Festival of Literature from 2006 until October 2008, when he resigned owing to the controversy which arose when David Irving was invited to the festival in 2009.
Sæterbakken's books were released and translated in several countries, among them Russia and US. April 2009 Flamme Forlag released an essay by Sæterbakken, in their series of book-singles, called Yes. No. Yes.
Sæterbakken committed suicide on January 24, 2012, aged 46.
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Displaying 1 - 15 of 15 reviews
August 26, 2014
The second novel from Norwegian troublemaker SS (who to our crushing disappointment ended his life in 2012) in his trilogy, and my second encounter with his work after the remarkable Through the Night. A less engaging but twice as tormented, neurotic and grief-stricken novel about a middle-aged man in the muddle of his life, contemplating the ennui and ridiculousness in his marriage and vocation. As the novel progresses the aimlessness of the plot transfers to aimlessness in the reading but the concision in the prose and awkward fly-on-the-wall tension keeps the proceedings unhappy and existentially uggo.
July 24, 2017
How Nausea and Disgust Mask Real Tragedy
I loved “Siamese,” the first book in this so-called “S Trilogy.” It is one of the darker books I have ever read, and made me ponder just how black black can get. (Review here.)
This book is quite different, and it showcases qualities of Saeterbakken that I didn’t like as much: his penchant for nauseating detail, which he thinks of as darkly humorous (a man smells his cold sweaty feet, and wonders why he enjoys the smell); his tendency to write in a succession of set pieces (in this book each ends with an exemplary loss of self-control); his way of characterizing people using the most disgusting possible images (a man who spends his day swatting flies, whose arm is covered with tiny fly bites); his general feeling that life is a succession of awkward, humiliating, embarrassing, and futile experiences.
But this book does have an overall arc, from a genuine tragedy, briefly glimpsed, through a series of trivial and ridiculous social failures, and back suddenly to the real tragedy. That arc does hold it together, if only in retrospect. But I may not read the third book in the trilogy (it hasn’t yet been translated), because I think that Saeterbakken’s attraction to dark comedy, embarrassment, and awkwardness are still standing in the way of any more substantial pessimism. All the little gaffes, sweaty palms, fears, blushes, and tics are meant as entertainments and even as expressive vehicles: but actually they are bandages that soothe, protect, and hide the deeper wounds. I would love it if Saeterbakken would just give them up. I don’t want to laugh (I don’t, anyway) or shiver in repulsion (I seldom do, anyway). Those things are ineffectual distractions from what really matters. The main character in this book, as in “Siamese,” is desperately unhappy and scarcely knows why. I would have liked to sit him down and get him to talk about that.
I loved “Siamese,” the first book in this so-called “S Trilogy.” It is one of the darker books I have ever read, and made me ponder just how black black can get. (Review here.)
This book is quite different, and it showcases qualities of Saeterbakken that I didn’t like as much: his penchant for nauseating detail, which he thinks of as darkly humorous (a man smells his cold sweaty feet, and wonders why he enjoys the smell); his tendency to write in a succession of set pieces (in this book each ends with an exemplary loss of self-control); his way of characterizing people using the most disgusting possible images (a man who spends his day swatting flies, whose arm is covered with tiny fly bites); his general feeling that life is a succession of awkward, humiliating, embarrassing, and futile experiences.
But this book does have an overall arc, from a genuine tragedy, briefly glimpsed, through a series of trivial and ridiculous social failures, and back suddenly to the real tragedy. That arc does hold it together, if only in retrospect. But I may not read the third book in the trilogy (it hasn’t yet been translated), because I think that Saeterbakken’s attraction to dark comedy, embarrassment, and awkwardness are still standing in the way of any more substantial pessimism. All the little gaffes, sweaty palms, fears, blushes, and tics are meant as entertainments and even as expressive vehicles: but actually they are bandages that soothe, protect, and hide the deeper wounds. I would love it if Saeterbakken would just give them up. I don’t want to laugh (I don’t, anyway) or shiver in repulsion (I seldom do, anyway). Those things are ineffectual distractions from what really matters. The main character in this book, as in “Siamese,” is desperately unhappy and scarcely knows why. I would have liked to sit him down and get him to talk about that.
February 23, 2013
If you like books about how life sucks and we're all just one small step away from total derailment, then this one is pretty okay.
March 23, 2021
besnærende, foruroligende greier, fikk meg til å «hæ?!» høyt gjentatte ganger under lesningen
August 27, 2016
A trend among Norwegian authors is this sense that language is unambiguous and so distinct that nothing said could be misunderstood.
There is a strong sense of clarity in Saeterbakken's prose. It is exact, like washing machine instructions. Or perhaps it's just the way these books come out of translation. To paraphase a commentator, this book is " a manual on exactly how not to live. "
There are many parts of ourselves that we wish would remain hidden. That interior is suffocating, selfish and wandering. Saeterbakken understands these dark places. He has signposted it right smack dab on the front cover. The book is called "Self-Control" after all.
There's a scene in the middle of the book where the narrator is in bed with his wife. It is horrific and excellent. Lesser authors have reached bigger for drama, everything has to so be grand, so unsubtle. The ultimate tragedy is rape. Not Saeterbakken. The wounds are always surgical.
There is a strong sense of clarity in Saeterbakken's prose. It is exact, like washing machine instructions. Or perhaps it's just the way these books come out of translation. To paraphase a commentator, this book is " a manual on exactly how not to live. "
There are many parts of ourselves that we wish would remain hidden. That interior is suffocating, selfish and wandering. Saeterbakken understands these dark places. He has signposted it right smack dab on the front cover. The book is called "Self-Control" after all.
There's a scene in the middle of the book where the narrator is in bed with his wife. It is horrific and excellent. Lesser authors have reached bigger for drama, everything has to so be grand, so unsubtle. The ultimate tragedy is rape. Not Saeterbakken. The wounds are always surgical.
December 18, 2015
Self-Control is unsettling from the start due to its narrator Andreas's unsettledness. And Sæterbakken has a habit of initiating minor plot-lines only to let them fade away, which adds to the on-edge feeling the novel generates, as if one is always expecting with the turn of the page to be greeted by some dramatic, and likely horrible, climax, or at least to find further sparks of a previously lit fuse still smoldering in one's memory following its ignition earlier in the book. Oddly enough, this 'method' drives the narrative forward in a not altogether dissatisfying manner, despite the novel's general anti-narrative quality. It is a dark book, saturated with loss and dressed in the ugliness of life's banalities, and the unrelenting cacophony of Andreas's conflicting thoughts and actions does come to make a distressing sort of sense when the ending finally arrives.
July 24, 2020
'Jeg holdt meg til hodet...og jeg kjente at det banket...og jeg tenkte, nå tenker jeg...det er slik det er å tenke...og så tenkte jeg at dersom jeg nå konsentrerte all min oppmerksomhet om det å tenke så ville jeg også kanskje klare å holde meg til dette ene og ikke alt på én gang...men tanken på det å tenke fikk meg bare straks til å tenke på en hel mengde forskjellige ting tanken kunne gi seg i kast med...'
November 29, 2022
Supert språk, bra historie. Best når man får lest lengre passasjer sammenhengende. Gleder meg til Sauermugg.
July 2, 2013
I read Siamese and loved it, so I was really looking forward to this book, the second in the so-called S trilogy. Then I read reviews, mostly on Goodreads, that almost all suggested that this was a let down compared to the first book. Hogwash. Self-Control may rank higher in my estimation. In some ways it is a more subtle novel, though it has its share of intense moments. Siamese, as great as it is, seems to be more popular due to the main idea (a couple, one deaf, the other blind-- wow, co-dependence!), which is why so many people are so fond of it. Self-Control lacks that wild and crazy element, but I still found it darker and a bit more satisfying. Can't wait for the third S!
September 17, 2013
...and I think I like it. and I just can't hide it.
January 25, 2021
my least favorite of his so far. The novel is too interior for me, although the character moves around and it only creates new places to complain or see the banal, although that may be the point of the book. It did not do it for me.
August 18, 2021
En sterk treer, får lyst til å lese mer av forfatteren, som i denne mørke og tidvis morsomme romanen gir leseren innblikk i tankene til en rutinepreget mann som plutselig begynner å utagere i hverdagssituasjoner. En noe åpenbar avslutning kunne vært sløyfet.
October 18, 2014
My brain doesn't know how to process Stig Saeterbakken.
About a year ago I read Through the Night, and liked it without really understanding why I did. Self-Control reads nothing like Through the Night, and I didn't like it nearly as much. But there's an element to this guy's writing that's in both of them and I don't even know what to compare it to. Those day-to-day almost but not quite Kafkaesque moments in which everything seems inexplicably ridiculous and pathetic for a moment-- as though for just a second you realize that what you thought was solid is actually cardboard, and everything solidifies again just before you collapse. That's what Saeterbakken is like (especially in this one), except as the book goes on, it takes longer and longer for everything to solidify. By the end, you're knee deep in cardboard and nothing makes much sense anymore.
Usually, I would intend a description like that as praise. Congrats on unsettling me, and I don't mean that sarcastically. But something smells off in this particular novel-- on some level, I think it's because the ideas Saeterbakken deconstructs in this novel just aren't all that relevant to me. So I can see what he's doing with things like marriage, parenthood, old age, etc. But though it's far from comforting, it doesn't hit me personally. So I'm left with a sour taste in my mouth without having actually gained anything.
And I guess the protagonist is supposed to be somewhat unlikeable, but y'know, it would have helped if I had at least had a character I cared about.
About a year ago I read Through the Night, and liked it without really understanding why I did. Self-Control reads nothing like Through the Night, and I didn't like it nearly as much. But there's an element to this guy's writing that's in both of them and I don't even know what to compare it to. Those day-to-day almost but not quite Kafkaesque moments in which everything seems inexplicably ridiculous and pathetic for a moment-- as though for just a second you realize that what you thought was solid is actually cardboard, and everything solidifies again just before you collapse. That's what Saeterbakken is like (especially in this one), except as the book goes on, it takes longer and longer for everything to solidify. By the end, you're knee deep in cardboard and nothing makes much sense anymore.
Usually, I would intend a description like that as praise. Congrats on unsettling me, and I don't mean that sarcastically. But something smells off in this particular novel-- on some level, I think it's because the ideas Saeterbakken deconstructs in this novel just aren't all that relevant to me. So I can see what he's doing with things like marriage, parenthood, old age, etc. But though it's far from comforting, it doesn't hit me personally. So I'm left with a sour taste in my mouth without having actually gained anything.
And I guess the protagonist is supposed to be somewhat unlikeable, but y'know, it would have helped if I had at least had a character I cared about.
March 7, 2013
Check out my review at Numéro Cinq: http://tinyurl.com/aylfb2b
Displaying 1 - 15 of 15 reviews