Olga Ravn’s first novel ’Celestine’ must be the product of a willed constraint. Her first poetry collection addressed the need for a point of view which takes breasts seriously, and created an assemblage of autobiography, concrete poetry and early twentieth century medical research into a kind of new historicist mash up. Somehow, she was able to take these disparate strands and shape them into a coherent page turning narrative sequence. With ‘Celestine’, I imagine Ravn confined herself to a genre ghost story whose foregrounded fictionality would allow her to articulate her views on otherwise taboo subjects: feelings of love which never settle on one object, the erotic charge of the teaching environment, and the tacit guilt at the heart of modern families, with step parents who struggle to love step children and step siblings who can’t really love each other.
What strikes me most is Ravn’s contention that our intensive feelings are like apparitions. They come and go as they please. When you try and examine them up close, there's barely a sign. The best you can do is live like the ghosts you aim to see. Imagine being physically dead yet still able to see what is nearby. To watch a fly corrupt a piece of fruit. To wait for Hammershøj's dust motes to fall through shafts of sunlight. To pass in and out through a crack in the window. A kind of beatification of catatonic detachment.
Ravn’s writing is good at sex. She can be explicit about acts, fluids, and parts in a way which doesn’t seem gratuitous nor straining. Her dull lover’s seed becomes syntagmatic with the white dress of the white woman ghost and anticipates images from ‘The White Rose’, her attempt to engender a lovechild between Gertrude Stein and Emily Dickinson. Midway through 'Celestine', an intense erotic scene where our narrator is on night-duty in the student dormitory and, wandering deserted corridors, she spies on two students having a quickie up against the wall. After the girl leaves, with a giggle, the boy leans back against the wall to smoke a cigarette alone in his accomplishment. She reveals herself to him and he looks on with a kind of calm curiosity in the quiet nocturnal gloom.
Is the central character a cipher for Olga Ravn herself, ‘drying up’ in the daily tidal grind of a provincial boarding school? I hope so. Her detachment towards both the older professional staff and the excitable young teenagers is partly the narrator’s own choice: from the start she embraces the austerity of her life’s monastic existence: bare room, classes, night watch, bed. Ravn’s excellent on daring to broach the everyday exclusion of the workplace, conducted without malicious intent, but simply due to mutual disinterest. Her colleagues are just older and have different priorities. Who will tell you that when you’re young? Meanwhile, her ebbing love for a depressed man is endured and we enjoy sharing her resignation. There's a certain stoic dignity in it.
Lastly, the family saga. Her upbringing is given to us piecemeal throughout, and we learn of how she has watched her divorced parents try and fuse successive step families and each time fail worse. Ravn’s narrator seems sure that such attempts are futile, being at best good foreshadowing of the intermittent coldness in adult affairs later. A curious ending, if not comically melodramatic, but my Danish isn’t good enough to disentangle the significance of the ‘red gloves’ or the other chains of symbolism which likely provide closure on a more subterranean level. Arguably, it is Ravn’s de-materialisation of romantic love, familial bonds and the notion of a vocation that are made ghost, yet in doing so she captures possibilities for communion we have not yet dreamed of.