Dedicated to Scandinavian writing, this issue of Granta showcases a literature that continues to pack in more force, pound for pound, than almost anywhere else in Europe.
Karl Ove Knausgård turns his critical eye to the work of Tarjei Vesaas; diaries on motherhood, depression and creativity from Eeva Kilpi; and the first publication in English from Lars Norén's monumental En dramatikers dagbok. Featuring new fiction from Nobel laureate Jon Fosse, Solvej Balle, Helle Helle, Vigdis Hjorth, Malte Tellerup, Kyrre Andreassen, Pirkko Saisio, Jonas Eika, Sigbjørn Skåden and Olga Ravn. Poetry by Søren Ulrik Thomsen, Asta Olivia Nordenhof, Ingela Strandberg, Sunna Dís Másdóttir, Espen Stueland, and Audun Mortensen, photography by Inuuteq Storch, Stephen Gill, Maja Daniels, Ikram Abdulkadir and paintings from Mamma Andersson.
One of the best editions I have read in a long time. Only author I had heard of was Karl Ove Knausgard .
Final piece was a 'diary' by Eeva Kilpi which portrays a devastating depression in a way devoid of obfuscation and pity. There's not much in English about her, but I found this extract from one of her poems. This is beautiful, uplifting and heartbreaking.
“And with cataracts in the eyes, waiting for a place at a care home you blindly grope for me, feeling your way with your hands.
Feel on, dear: under all these wrinkles is me this is the disguise life forced onto us in the end, You my strawberry, my swallow, my flower so fine.”
Sometimes I wonder if GRANTA needs to have country/ region themed editions. the authors here are diverse, but I’m left with the idea of these writers as morose, isolated, writing about the minutiae of there lives in intricate detail. There are a couple essays about authors the world outside of their own world does not know. The Swedish Lars Norén (whose excerpted work here, “Diary of A Playwright”, I found mundane—too personal to be engaging. I did not finish it), and the Norwegian, Tarjei Vesaas, whose work has never been translated into English. The praise for these writers heaped by Sigrid Rausing, and Karl Ove Knausgård, respectively, has a desperate air, a call for a broader appeal, more translation efforts, or a haughty “you don’t know what you’re missing”. I would have rather read an excerpt of Vesaas, or a play of Norén’s. I’m always happy to read more Olga Ravn. Solvej Balle captures the minds of children, problem solving, innocently destructive. Jon Fosse works draw on commonplace interactions and behaviors, though the repetitive contemplation of these actions grows tedious for me. I enjoyed the poetry. And the photo essays. I liked seeing Mamma Andersson’s paintings.