Krysantemum

by Rune Christiansen

Genres: Fiction, Roman

240 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 2010

About the author

Rune Christiansen (f. 1963) ble en sentral og innflytelsesrik litterat allerede med debuten Hvor toget forlater havet i 1986. Han har utgitt tolv diktsamlinger samtidig som han har utviklet et stadig mer markant og bemerkelsesverdig prosaforfatterskap, med romaner som Krysantemum (2009), Ensomheten i Lydia Ernemans liv (2014), Fanny og mysteriet i den sørgende skogen (2017) og Saken med den tapte tidens innfall (2021).

Christiansen er blitt tildelt en rekke priser, bl.a. Dobloug-prisen, Brageprisen og Gyldendalprisen. Han har gjendiktet poeter som Frank Kuppner, Alain Bosquet og Edmond Jabés, og er redaktør for Forlaget Oktobers gjendiktningsserie for samtidspoesi.

I 2019 mottok Christiansen den prestisjefylte franske utmerkelsen Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres.

Reviews

[Simen Sletsjøe · Rating 3 out of 5]

Roman i sjangeren «fransk film». Den fragmenterte fortellermåten fungerer godt, hovedpersonens avkoblethet til hendelser sentrale til hennes liv, er på grensen til apatisme, hvis det er en måte å vri på adjektivet apatisk, og apatisme er uinteressant, selv når språket som fremstiller apatismen er vakkert.

[Jules · Rating 3 out of 5]

Kær, men lidt for distanceret bog

[Melanie Damkjær Møller Hansen · Rating 5 out of 5]

Agnes is rounded by flinty rigidity, through and through. Her relationship with the world resembles that of a scientist confronting an equation that seems perpetually and obstinately resistant to resolution. She's a dispassionate analyst whose entire life is an arduous arithmetic of interactions, meticulously cataloged like variables in an experiment but devoid of the vibrancy that relational connection imbues. Agnes is, to most people, frustratingly unimpressionable, her response to life's myriad stimuli is filtered through a lens of cold logic.

She is the kind of character that will, understandably, repel a lot of readers. However, I have a particular weakness for this type of character, one so sanitized of sentimentalism. They occupy a special place in my heart. And while I can understand those who might find her unyielding disposition, and the mechanical precision with which the prose distinctly mirrors the restrained nature of Agnes, tiresome, the brilliance of the novel lies in the author's ability to mirror Agnes' perspective through prose that, like her life, is devoid of flourish yet is suffused with a melancholic beauty and contemplative depth. Just as Agnes' love of art emerges as the sole breach in her fortress of rationality that allows one to glimpse into the humanity beneath her stout veneer, it is as if the prose has internalized her restraint, echoing her sterile existence while simultaneously, and this is an impressive feat, fostering a nuanced space for deep empathy with a character many may harbuor an instinctive aversion for.

The novel crystallizes a profound dialogue between the rigidity of data, the framework Agnes clings to, and the fluidity of art, serving as a commentary on the limitations of logic. While logic and stringent dictates of empirical reasoning may provide a compass guiding her understanding of the world, it is insufficient as a substitute for genuine connection and the lived experiences that inoculate our lives from anchorless meaninglessness and existential disorientation.

The novel is an exquisite exploration of the dichotomy between the stark clarity of quantitative analysis and the richness of qualitative experience, and in times where algorithms parse our lives, what inquiry could be more apropos?