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Sverm
- Jeg er en avviker, tenker Aurora.
- Jeg hører ikke hjemme her.
Maskinene er overalt og alt er informasjon. Alle er logget på til enhver tid. Bortsett fra Aurora Isaksen. Mens moren og søsknene lever i cyberspace, drømmer hun om en fjern fortid med brolagte gater, kjerrehjul, telefonkiosker, kirkespir og bål under stjernehimmelen.
Helt til Aurora en dag får en gammel bok, som skal vise seg å være nøkkelen til en annen virkelighet. Og til en søppeltømmer ...
Hva er naturlig? Hva er virkelig? Og hva bør menneskene være? Dette er noen av spørsmålene som stilles i denne urovekkenede og undrende fremtidsfabelen.
- Jeg hører ikke hjemme her.
Maskinene er overalt og alt er informasjon. Alle er logget på til enhver tid. Bortsett fra Aurora Isaksen. Mens moren og søsknene lever i cyberspace, drømmer hun om en fjern fortid med brolagte gater, kjerrehjul, telefonkiosker, kirkespir og bål under stjernehimmelen.
Helt til Aurora en dag får en gammel bok, som skal vise seg å være nøkkelen til en annen virkelighet. Og til en søppeltømmer ...
Hva er naturlig? Hva er virkelig? Og hva bør menneskene være? Dette er noen av spørsmålene som stilles i denne urovekkenede og undrende fremtidsfabelen.
- GenresScience Fiction
150 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2003
About the author
Elin Brodin
47 books6 followersElin Margrethe Brodin er en norsk forfatter og oversetter. Hun debuterte litterært i 1983. Som forfatter er hun kjent for sin skarpe sivilisasjonskritikk. Bøkene hennes låner iblant motiv fra science fiction og fantasy, men de fleste utgivelsene er mer realistiske samtidsromaner. For det meste sktiver hun skjønnlitteratur for voksne, men har også noen barne- og ungdomsbøker og et par debattbøker bak seg.
Hun skriver i tillegg avisstoff. Hennes debattbok Papirdukker omhandlet saken som i 1996 førte til at norsk barnevern ble dømt ved Den europeiske menneskerettsdomstolen i Strasbourg for brudd på menneskerettighetene. Elin Brodin er født, oppvokst og bosatt i Oslo.
Hun skriver i tillegg avisstoff. Hennes debattbok Papirdukker omhandlet saken som i 1996 førte til at norsk barnevern ble dømt ved Den europeiske menneskerettsdomstolen i Strasbourg for brudd på menneskerettighetene. Elin Brodin er født, oppvokst og bosatt i Oslo.
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
February 26, 2026
Utdrag fra min anmeldelse av boken for Nye NOVA:
https://www.nyenova.no/tilkoblet-tids...
«Sverm» er langsom litteratur om teknologisk integrering. Det gjør boka paradoksalt nok så aktuell at ingen vil gidde å lese den.
"I 2003 kom hun nemlig ut med romanen Sverm, der hun forutser en fremtid der «alle er logget på til enhver tid». Dette premisset minner meg om hvordan vi i dag, 23 år senere, er som klistret til smarttelefonene. Romanen kom ut etter at internett ble en del av hverdagen vår, men før smarttelefonen og de sosiale mediers inntog (og inngripen). Brodin treffer overraskende godt, og hadde boken blitt gitt ut nylig, ville sikkert anmeldere skrevet noe sånt som at hun klarer å «fange tidsånden med sitt skarpsindige skjønnlitterære bidrag til debatten om skjermbruk» når hun nå argumenterer for å ta et steg tilbake fra skjermen og spørre oss selv om slags type menneske vi vil eller bør være i møte med denne konstante tilkoblingen.
Brodin gjør så klart som mange andre forfattere tidligere har gjort: Hun advarer om en gjennomgripende teknologisk fremtid som nå er i emning. Men for meg er nettopp denne fremstillingen mer jordnær og familiær i «Sverm» enn andre mer typiske høyteknologiske dystopier og postapokalyptiske scenarioer ispedd cyberpunk. Boken må ha fremstått som en advarsel i 2003, men nå som det faktisk er vanskeligere å skille det digitale livet fra det virkelige, står den seg i dag mer som en rettesnor og til dels en streng pekefinger.
(...)
Men hva med hverdagen? Gjør maskinene oss lykkelige? Hva oppnår vi? Hva mister og mangler vi? Dette er noen av de spørsmålene som Sverm både stiller og prøver å svare på. Boken kan sånn sett leses som samtidslitteratur, for i lys av dagens situasjon står Brodin i bresjen for oppgjørets time: Gjennom Aurora og hennes familie konfronterer hun oss med tilkoblingen – og skjermtrangen – og spør om vi ikke mister noe grunnleggende i oss av ikke å ha et tydelig og ærlig skille mellom skjermlivet og det skjermløse livet. Spesielt når det som nevnt er diffuse skillelinjer mellom det digitale og det fysiske liv, slik at vi lever i fragmenterte virtuelle virkeligheter som vi har gjort oss dobbelt avhengig av, både rent praktisk og psykologisk.
Samtidig viser hun oss at det er mulig å kjempe for personlig frigjøring. Dette gjør nemlig Aurora: Hun ser skjønnheten i å koble seg av, lese bøker, gå turer, nyte naturen, reflektere og ha ekte samtaler. Jeg kjenner meg igjen i henne; det er noe betryggende i å bli speilet på denne måten og samtidig få bekreftelse på hva mine egne bekymringer bunner i. Hun får meg til å se innover, men søke utover, mot en mer levende og bevisst tilværelse. Til tross for en handlefattig historie, blir det allikevel engasjerende.
(...)
Sverm er i grunn en langsom skjønnlitterær veileder i en krevende oppmerksomhetsøkonomi, men du blir belønnet for innsatsen, så her er det bare å ta seg en pause fra big tech og overvåkningskapitalismen med en fysisk bok og lese den i smug fra tekoligarkene. Sett deg bare ned i orkanens øye mens appvarslene brøler rundt deg, pust med magen og gjenvinn troen på menneskeheten. Så vil du garantert finne – om ikke det endelige svaret – en behagelig indre ro."
https://www.nyenova.no/tilkoblet-tids...
«Sverm» er langsom litteratur om teknologisk integrering. Det gjør boka paradoksalt nok så aktuell at ingen vil gidde å lese den.
"I 2003 kom hun nemlig ut med romanen Sverm, der hun forutser en fremtid der «alle er logget på til enhver tid». Dette premisset minner meg om hvordan vi i dag, 23 år senere, er som klistret til smarttelefonene. Romanen kom ut etter at internett ble en del av hverdagen vår, men før smarttelefonen og de sosiale mediers inntog (og inngripen). Brodin treffer overraskende godt, og hadde boken blitt gitt ut nylig, ville sikkert anmeldere skrevet noe sånt som at hun klarer å «fange tidsånden med sitt skarpsindige skjønnlitterære bidrag til debatten om skjermbruk» når hun nå argumenterer for å ta et steg tilbake fra skjermen og spørre oss selv om slags type menneske vi vil eller bør være i møte med denne konstante tilkoblingen.
Brodin gjør så klart som mange andre forfattere tidligere har gjort: Hun advarer om en gjennomgripende teknologisk fremtid som nå er i emning. Men for meg er nettopp denne fremstillingen mer jordnær og familiær i «Sverm» enn andre mer typiske høyteknologiske dystopier og postapokalyptiske scenarioer ispedd cyberpunk. Boken må ha fremstått som en advarsel i 2003, men nå som det faktisk er vanskeligere å skille det digitale livet fra det virkelige, står den seg i dag mer som en rettesnor og til dels en streng pekefinger.
(...)
Men hva med hverdagen? Gjør maskinene oss lykkelige? Hva oppnår vi? Hva mister og mangler vi? Dette er noen av de spørsmålene som Sverm både stiller og prøver å svare på. Boken kan sånn sett leses som samtidslitteratur, for i lys av dagens situasjon står Brodin i bresjen for oppgjørets time: Gjennom Aurora og hennes familie konfronterer hun oss med tilkoblingen – og skjermtrangen – og spør om vi ikke mister noe grunnleggende i oss av ikke å ha et tydelig og ærlig skille mellom skjermlivet og det skjermløse livet. Spesielt når det som nevnt er diffuse skillelinjer mellom det digitale og det fysiske liv, slik at vi lever i fragmenterte virtuelle virkeligheter som vi har gjort oss dobbelt avhengig av, både rent praktisk og psykologisk.
Samtidig viser hun oss at det er mulig å kjempe for personlig frigjøring. Dette gjør nemlig Aurora: Hun ser skjønnheten i å koble seg av, lese bøker, gå turer, nyte naturen, reflektere og ha ekte samtaler. Jeg kjenner meg igjen i henne; det er noe betryggende i å bli speilet på denne måten og samtidig få bekreftelse på hva mine egne bekymringer bunner i. Hun får meg til å se innover, men søke utover, mot en mer levende og bevisst tilværelse. Til tross for en handlefattig historie, blir det allikevel engasjerende.
(...)
Sverm er i grunn en langsom skjønnlitterær veileder i en krevende oppmerksomhetsøkonomi, men du blir belønnet for innsatsen, så her er det bare å ta seg en pause fra big tech og overvåkningskapitalismen med en fysisk bok og lese den i smug fra tekoligarkene. Sett deg bare ned i orkanens øye mens appvarslene brøler rundt deg, pust med magen og gjenvinn troen på menneskeheten. Så vil du garantert finne – om ikke det endelige svaret – en behagelig indre ro."
October 13, 2026
A prophecy of our current age of overly eager computerised lifestyles; the novel that understood where we were heading.
AI was a subject for sci-fi back in 2003, yet Sverm (translation: Swarm) dealt with it as if it was an everyday part of our lives. In '23 things took a turn and this was no longer science fiction. AI had suddenly turned into just average everyday science – and with it came the proof that Swarm had been right all along. It was the year which we could open this book and see it as almost contemporary fiction. It does, however, due to its age use the term 'the machine' rather than AI, and it seems only right that this review does the same.
It is pins with holograms that connect humans to the web in the book's dystopia; in ours it's phones that do this. This is the major difference – it turns out that making holograms is much harder than to make machines that exist to manipulate its users. – On the other hand, the effects which AI has on our social life, on our ability to feel empathy, on our ability to handle our emotions, on our ability to understand and manage the world around us, on our ability to discern what is real and what is disinformation, to concentrate, to make choices, and so on and on – in all of this the book is accurate to our new reality. The people of Swarm and the reality they have made for themselves, is uncomfortably close to the one this reviewer is inhabiting as this is written.
This was once a book to be read philosophically; perhaps as a warning, perhaps as a thought experiment; but now it's one that is read with regret.
“My dear,” says Hannah and pushes open her daughter's door, which is ajar like doors usually are. “Are you not activated?” (p. 9; reviewer's translation)
The sentences of this novel is often packed with meaningful information. This one contains at least three bits of it. Firstly, the protagonist and narrator – Aurora Isaksen – thinks of her mother as 'Hannah,' not 'mum.' Secondly, there is something eerily invasive about doors that are constantly ajar. And thirdly, which requires a little more context than just this sentence, Aurora's Hannah stops by just to make sure she is connected to the machine and not just sitting around and being antisocial/offline – which she refers to as being 'activated' as opposed to 'inactive,' as if the only way to be active in a meaningful way is to be online.
With regard to the two latter points: We got our first taste of this mentality when Facebook made its debut: It didn't take long before those with a Facebook account no longer found it worth their while to invite anyone without one. Those who had no account were suddenly socially ineligible to those who had one – sending an SMS was sometimes met with a surly reply asking why this wasn't sent through social media, with the underlying insinuation that this is what normal people would do. It was expected that everyone would share everything that was going on in their lives, and other people could feel personally slated if another person 'hid' something. Facebook has more or less died since then and people's respect for the autonomy of others has to some degree been regained, but the demand for a door ajar remains. There is an emotional burden to an unanswered snap, as is the case when one breaks any social norm, and there remains a need to subscribe to a sufficient amount of the same social media as ones social circle or end up slipping away from it.
Doors are also left ajar by the computers themselves. Through cookies, obscure terms of service, bots and automated information gathering, most of what is said and done on social media has been stored somewhere. The amount of legal trouble Facebook has gotten themselves into due to dishonest handling of the personal information of its users is staggering, and yet it continues. And they are hardly the only ones.
Aurora is one of the few who shuns the pin. She feels an aversion to how it replaces her need to cogitate and makes her feel distanced from her own mind, and also because of how it affects her family. Her Hannah is the alcoholic mother stereotype, but without any substance abuse, having chosen to flee into the rush of the machine instead of tending to her children or dealing with the world. Her brother has become the recognisable autodidactic right-wing racist who has learned everything he needs to know about foreigners from the machine and its echo chambers, and has become a young man with lots of righteous aggression but no real world experience to temper or support his arguments. Her young sister is a neglected child who she tries to be a mother for, but Aurora is sixteen and has never had a proper parental figure in her life, so she struggles more than she succeeds. Like her Hannah, her sister turns to the machine to soothe her emotions and take her mind away from the real world – the pin ends up as her parent of choice. It's a family broken by the allure of the machine's faux-friendly smile.
What ends up changing her world is when her Hannah, in an attempt at showing how dull analogue things are, gives her a book. It doesn't have the intended effect, but it does make Aurora happy. Then there is the garbage man, an old man named Theo who is never seen with his pin on, and as far as she knows, her only peer in this world.
Besides her own mind, these two are the ways in which Aurora gets an outlet for her concerns. Large sections of the book are dedicated to her debates, alone or with Theo, on the machine and the world, and these parts constitute the very core of the book. Swarm isn't predominantly a story, it is a philosophical work. Yet not one that safely guides the readers to a certain conclusion or argument, but one that presents the problems and lets the readers mull them over together with Aurora. That is not to say that Aurora doesn't reach conclusions, but they always feels like hers and not one taken on the readers' behalves:
It would almost have to be this way: There are opposing forces; there is hope of a change we can endure. For that is how we're made. Those who need each other, will find each other in the end. Humans are made that way. Humans are meant to take up space. (p. 104; reviewer's translation)
This is one of the most important similarities between the machine and what we call AI, they diminish our roles in our own lives. Creativity was once closest at hand inside us, but this does no longer seem to be the case now that computers can use structured responses to replace it. Now if we need a novel written an AI can do that job for is in no time at all. Creativity is one of humanity's most important assets. It was what allowed us to invent, to make everything that is part of our lives down to the very fact that we're wearing clothes. It's both what we use to draw conclusions from within the box as well as when we think outside it. Even the ability to choose which coffee one wants is a minor usage of creativity. But creativity isn't a stable innate ability, it requires use to grow potent. Handing it away on a regular basis will reduce our impact upon our own lives and the world around us. AI has come to compete with us for the space we take up.
This deep book is often labelled as young adult, and considering how the themes of Aurora's life fits this genre perfectly, there is something to this. Swarm is as useful and thought-provoking for a fourteen-year-old as it is for this reviewer, however, and is better shelved side by side with Lord of the Flies or Animal Farm, books that are far too meaningful to belong to any single age demographic. It's a very different kind of journey than the classic dystopias, a far more personal one, but they do indeed belong together as far as its potential impact on the reader is concerned.
AI was a subject for sci-fi back in 2003, yet Sverm (translation: Swarm) dealt with it as if it was an everyday part of our lives. In '23 things took a turn and this was no longer science fiction. AI had suddenly turned into just average everyday science – and with it came the proof that Swarm had been right all along. It was the year which we could open this book and see it as almost contemporary fiction. It does, however, due to its age use the term 'the machine' rather than AI, and it seems only right that this review does the same.
It is pins with holograms that connect humans to the web in the book's dystopia; in ours it's phones that do this. This is the major difference – it turns out that making holograms is much harder than to make machines that exist to manipulate its users. – On the other hand, the effects which AI has on our social life, on our ability to feel empathy, on our ability to handle our emotions, on our ability to understand and manage the world around us, on our ability to discern what is real and what is disinformation, to concentrate, to make choices, and so on and on – in all of this the book is accurate to our new reality. The people of Swarm and the reality they have made for themselves, is uncomfortably close to the one this reviewer is inhabiting as this is written.
This was once a book to be read philosophically; perhaps as a warning, perhaps as a thought experiment; but now it's one that is read with regret.
“My dear,” says Hannah and pushes open her daughter's door, which is ajar like doors usually are. “Are you not activated?” (p. 9; reviewer's translation)
The sentences of this novel is often packed with meaningful information. This one contains at least three bits of it. Firstly, the protagonist and narrator – Aurora Isaksen – thinks of her mother as 'Hannah,' not 'mum.' Secondly, there is something eerily invasive about doors that are constantly ajar. And thirdly, which requires a little more context than just this sentence, Aurora's Hannah stops by just to make sure she is connected to the machine and not just sitting around and being antisocial/offline – which she refers to as being 'activated' as opposed to 'inactive,' as if the only way to be active in a meaningful way is to be online.
With regard to the two latter points: We got our first taste of this mentality when Facebook made its debut: It didn't take long before those with a Facebook account no longer found it worth their while to invite anyone without one. Those who had no account were suddenly socially ineligible to those who had one – sending an SMS was sometimes met with a surly reply asking why this wasn't sent through social media, with the underlying insinuation that this is what normal people would do. It was expected that everyone would share everything that was going on in their lives, and other people could feel personally slated if another person 'hid' something. Facebook has more or less died since then and people's respect for the autonomy of others has to some degree been regained, but the demand for a door ajar remains. There is an emotional burden to an unanswered snap, as is the case when one breaks any social norm, and there remains a need to subscribe to a sufficient amount of the same social media as ones social circle or end up slipping away from it.
Doors are also left ajar by the computers themselves. Through cookies, obscure terms of service, bots and automated information gathering, most of what is said and done on social media has been stored somewhere. The amount of legal trouble Facebook has gotten themselves into due to dishonest handling of the personal information of its users is staggering, and yet it continues. And they are hardly the only ones.
Aurora is one of the few who shuns the pin. She feels an aversion to how it replaces her need to cogitate and makes her feel distanced from her own mind, and also because of how it affects her family. Her Hannah is the alcoholic mother stereotype, but without any substance abuse, having chosen to flee into the rush of the machine instead of tending to her children or dealing with the world. Her brother has become the recognisable autodidactic right-wing racist who has learned everything he needs to know about foreigners from the machine and its echo chambers, and has become a young man with lots of righteous aggression but no real world experience to temper or support his arguments. Her young sister is a neglected child who she tries to be a mother for, but Aurora is sixteen and has never had a proper parental figure in her life, so she struggles more than she succeeds. Like her Hannah, her sister turns to the machine to soothe her emotions and take her mind away from the real world – the pin ends up as her parent of choice. It's a family broken by the allure of the machine's faux-friendly smile.
What ends up changing her world is when her Hannah, in an attempt at showing how dull analogue things are, gives her a book. It doesn't have the intended effect, but it does make Aurora happy. Then there is the garbage man, an old man named Theo who is never seen with his pin on, and as far as she knows, her only peer in this world.
Besides her own mind, these two are the ways in which Aurora gets an outlet for her concerns. Large sections of the book are dedicated to her debates, alone or with Theo, on the machine and the world, and these parts constitute the very core of the book. Swarm isn't predominantly a story, it is a philosophical work. Yet not one that safely guides the readers to a certain conclusion or argument, but one that presents the problems and lets the readers mull them over together with Aurora. That is not to say that Aurora doesn't reach conclusions, but they always feels like hers and not one taken on the readers' behalves:
It would almost have to be this way: There are opposing forces; there is hope of a change we can endure. For that is how we're made. Those who need each other, will find each other in the end. Humans are made that way. Humans are meant to take up space. (p. 104; reviewer's translation)
This is one of the most important similarities between the machine and what we call AI, they diminish our roles in our own lives. Creativity was once closest at hand inside us, but this does no longer seem to be the case now that computers can use structured responses to replace it. Now if we need a novel written an AI can do that job for is in no time at all. Creativity is one of humanity's most important assets. It was what allowed us to invent, to make everything that is part of our lives down to the very fact that we're wearing clothes. It's both what we use to draw conclusions from within the box as well as when we think outside it. Even the ability to choose which coffee one wants is a minor usage of creativity. But creativity isn't a stable innate ability, it requires use to grow potent. Handing it away on a regular basis will reduce our impact upon our own lives and the world around us. AI has come to compete with us for the space we take up.
This deep book is often labelled as young adult, and considering how the themes of Aurora's life fits this genre perfectly, there is something to this. Swarm is as useful and thought-provoking for a fourteen-year-old as it is for this reviewer, however, and is better shelved side by side with Lord of the Flies or Animal Farm, books that are far too meaningful to belong to any single age demographic. It's a very different kind of journey than the classic dystopias, a far more personal one, but they do indeed belong together as far as its potential impact on the reader is concerned.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews