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Sammen.Brudd.
Kritikerroste noveller fra Edy Poppy.
«Sammen.Brudd.» er en samling noveller om tosomhetens forvitring og ensomhetens utilstrekkelighet. Edy Poppy skriver om mennesker i tilværelsens randsoner, om intense parforhold og surnet begjær. I en følsom og registrerende prosa skriver Poppy frem forelskelsens desperasjon og angsten for å bli værende igjen alene – på landsbygda, ved havet, ved søppeldynga, eller i storbyen Berlin. Med overskudd og originalitet leker hun med virkelighetens inntog i fiksjonen, og stiller nye spørsmål om hvordan sannheten best kan gripes.
Sammen.Brudd. er en novellesamling full av paradokser, av narsissisme og selvforakt, av selvstendighet og avhengighet, av sannhet og løgn.
«Sammen.Brudd.» er en samling noveller om tosomhetens forvitring og ensomhetens utilstrekkelighet. Edy Poppy skriver om mennesker i tilværelsens randsoner, om intense parforhold og surnet begjær. I en følsom og registrerende prosa skriver Poppy frem forelskelsens desperasjon og angsten for å bli værende igjen alene – på landsbygda, ved havet, ved søppeldynga, eller i storbyen Berlin. Med overskudd og originalitet leker hun med virkelighetens inntog i fiksjonen, og stiller nye spørsmål om hvordan sannheten best kan gripes.
Sammen.Brudd. er en novellesamling full av paradokser, av narsissisme og selvforakt, av selvstendighet og avhengighet, av sannhet og løgn.
- GenresShort StoriesFiction
168 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2011
4 people are currently reading
162 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews
March 11, 2017
Jeg husker første gang jeg leste denne novellesamlingen så utrolig godt. Det var mitt første møte med Edy Poppy, og etter bokstavelig talt et par sider var jeg allerede frelst. Jeg visste at Sammen.Brudd kom til å bli en av mine favorittbøker, og ikke minst at jeg måtte få tak i min nye favorittforfatters roman rimelig kjapt. Sammen.Brudd er desidert noe helt for seg selv, og innimellom tok jeg meg selv å tenke tanker som "Skrev hun virkelig det? Leste jeg riktig nå? Hvordan tør hun?", og det fascinerte meg noe enormt. Jeg tenkte at hun var modig som skrev så ærlig og uten filter både om kjærlighet og litt mer forbudte temaer, for det er i hvert fall det inntrykket jeg sitter igjen med at hun så absolutt gjør i ganske stor grad.
Hver eneste setning er enten poetisk, vakker, sjokkerende sær eller bare utrolig velskrevet, og jeg husker at jeg flere ganger bare ble helt satt ut og pent måtte lukke igjen boken, holde den tett inntil brystet og tenke over det jeg nettopp hadde lest. På et punkt ble jeg faktisk så ivrig i lesingen at jeg så meg nødt til å dele ulike setninger høyt med de andre i huset. Dette er rett og slett skrivekunst på høyt nivå, og det er sjelden jeg kommer over forfattere som har en så sterk og egen skrivestil som det Edy Poppy har.
Det er noe skikkelig originalt ved denne damen, og jeg håper virkelig på flere bøker fra hun i fremtiden.
Hver eneste setning er enten poetisk, vakker, sjokkerende sær eller bare utrolig velskrevet, og jeg husker at jeg flere ganger bare ble helt satt ut og pent måtte lukke igjen boken, holde den tett inntil brystet og tenke over det jeg nettopp hadde lest. På et punkt ble jeg faktisk så ivrig i lesingen at jeg så meg nødt til å dele ulike setninger høyt med de andre i huset. Dette er rett og slett skrivekunst på høyt nivå, og det er sjelden jeg kommer over forfattere som har en så sterk og egen skrivestil som det Edy Poppy har.
Det er noe skikkelig originalt ved denne damen, og jeg håper virkelig på flere bøker fra hun i fremtiden.
July 27, 2017
Skjørt, vakkert, deilig, poetisk, kvalmende, menneskelig, fantastisk.
4.5 stjerne.
4.5 stjerne.
September 30, 2025
I've finally finished the last of the two books the Dalkey Archive Press had sent me recently (with the only other book being Edouard Leve's 'Suicide'), and I must admit, though I've done my best to like this book (more than just appreciate it and what it does), this collection bumps shoulders amongst the lesser works I've read this year--it's become apparent that I've only continued reading onward due to two things that'd accompanied me on this short-lived journey: obligation to the press, and the length of each story.
Like I previously did with William H. Gass' In the Heart of the Heart of the Country collection, I'll rate and review each of Poppy's stories individually before concluding with a final review for the collection in its entirety; I'll refer to my notes to guide me on this bit while I type together my thoughts on what was Coming. Apart. -- punny:
'My Last Short Story' is essentially an editor's note that is one part fiction and one part reality--it isn't too difficult to discern what from what, but by the end of this collection, in retrospect, you realize some of what you might've believed was fiction was merely a cover for reality; in this intro-story, the narrator, who I presume to be Poppy herself, simply states she's aware of the state of these stories, that they aren't to the degree she wishes them to be, excusing herself for the reader--this alone should decide whether you should continue reading the book itself, as it reads more like a sorry preface than the story it tries to fool you into believing; it's clear as to why it's been placed first in the collection, after all, from what I've read of previous reviews, it was originally placed at the very end in the original Norwegian releases; if this were truly a letter to an editor, I feel as though they'd have dropped the project in its entirety after reading it--thinking about the collection in its entirety, this could've been removed from the collection. [40/100]
In 'Dungeness,' Coming. Apart.'s second story, as well as one of the better ones, I've virtually no qualms about, with the main problem being its horrific pacing--a theme which will surveil this review; it reads utterly vague, it's deliberately choppy, in a way that lacks all rhythm, but of course, this is a translation, it must flow much better in the original Norwegian, so that won't be a problem for this review, it's simply an observation; Dungness reads as though Poppy strung it together without a plot in mind, it's scattered, favoring something unstable rather than to take hold of anything real to build from--this may be intentional, but that doesn't imply it was executed well; there're oddities in this story, confusing happenings that would've worked better had they been sprinkled evenly throughout the text rather than being thrown in last minute--it was heavy-handed, and a heavy-handed nature ultimately disrupts whatever pacing this was beginning to create for itself; it feels as though I'm reading a summary of the story instead of the story itself: she tells you things instead of showing you; not to mention that this story, though transgressive, is transgressive literature without getting its hands dirty; there's potential in this story, but not enough for it to be memorable: [65/100]; Poppy needs a doesn't-take-no-for-nothing kind of editor to help her realize what she has in herself;
In 'Alone is Not the Same as Lonely,' certainly the most disturbing, and affecting, of the stories--it really doesn't go any further than this--we read of an incestuous relationship, and much doesn't happen; unlike the previous stories, the prose here isn't as fragmented or vague, only becoming gnomic at the most crucial moments where a choppy read would bring forth what power is in her storytelling--Poppy uses the story's setting and events as vehicles to explore the feeling of sadness, the human mind and memory, time, the narrator's environment and their upbringing; I've little to nothing to say about it, it's equally disgusting as it is great; a compact read that might follow you around for a while, at least until you pick the book up and read 'Alone is Not the Same as Lonely' into the oblivion that is forgetting and not remaining static: [95/100];
her fourth story, 'Rain Divide,' starts off on the wrong foot for me--Poppy's way of expressing events is amateur-esque, in the way Jonathan Buckley's Live; live; live was, only without the pompous nature that comes with his superficiality; Poppy has the tendency to say one thing then follow up with a reiteration of it but in a metaphoric mode, failing in what she just tried to do, as though winding up boisterously for the pitch and loosening your palm so that the ball rolls from your hand and into the near grass rather than being catapulted by the cartoonish wind-up's potential--it seems as though the narrator isn't confident enough in their own narration, and this may or may not, too, be deliberate, but even if it was, this has its drawbacks; the pacing wasn't good at the beginning, but it gets better in the middle and ending, though the ending left me somewhat perplexed, not by what happens, but by the abruptness of the ending, which is strange of me to say considering me saying the pacing was good---you'd understand when you read it, but my guess is that the lines were supposed to be affecting; and it's also worth mentioning that some crucial key elements, much like the unstable ground Poppy builds stories upon, are left unresolved, and so it reads like a story with lost potential--[75/100];
in 'Boils,' considering the title, I actually expected this to be the more disturbing of the collection, but, surprisingly enough, it's as light as the others, save for Lonely, and yet, it is with this story where I realized a pattern: every single character in this story collection is freakishly pale and exhibits the same mental and physical characteristics as each other: every single character is described as emaciated, uncomfortably white, ghostly white even, while several don white hair, much to the point that the reader must come to grips with the fact Edy Poppy's aesthetic is the sexually transgressive nature of her unadmittenedly-albino creations, all of whom feel more like stand-ins than fleshed-out characters; and with this realization, one takes notice of the atonality of the collection itself, all the same things happen with nearly every story, even little things; my main criticism in this story is, again, the pacing, it isn't so good, the ending's abruptness doesn't emphasize anything, it serves no purpose nor does it have any effect on the story itself, only a negative one on the collection, signaling the thought of this being a neophytic writing--[80/100];
in 'Monitor,' perhaps my favorite of all, we read the stream of consciousness first-person account of the narrator interspersed by court documents about stalking, which, funny enough, these documents are what will give the reader an idea as to what they're reading--and it works great; it's compact, fresh, bears nothing of what I criticize her previous stories for, even the pacing's wonderful--it's dysfunctional, uncomfortable, punchy, and pitch-perfect--[90/100];
as for the last story, 'Repeat Ad Libitum,' we read Edy's story with the best pacing--it starts vague, but it begins to carve a path for itself the further you read; anyhow, the story's an overall [78/100]--the plot itself in the context with the previous stories is the proliferation of the same atonality, only louder, and, funnily enough, even symbolic of it as it features a piano that's referred to throughout the story--this story has every key signature of a Poppy story: relationships, a human's pallor, something unrequited, choppy language, and there it is, it isn't so memorable itself, but I appreciate it for what it is--I feel that I would have liked this story more had it been a standalone work.
Edy Poppy's stories are like her characters: struggling to exist, merely outlines or summaries of a real story, all in all, they've no proper body to live in, they're not given the space adequate for life as a piece of fiction; her prose reads like a sad attempt at minimalism, much to the point of deliberate grammatical errors, which aren't so bad, but like I've mentioned earlier, the flow is greatly reduced, and sometimes that's a good thing, but for entire stories to be written this way is only a peeve than a storytelling experience; my review may read like an unfair slighting of Poppy and her writing, but I promise you that it is not meant to come off as this--much like her stories, the circumstances I'm under while typing out this write-up don't allow me the space to write any more than I already have.
[47/100]
Not every story collection is created equal--reading this makes me greatly miss the erudition and creativity of I'd experienced when reading Jorge Luis Borges' Ficciones for the first time; perhaps I'll pick up Cortazar's Blow Up and Other Stories after I finish Camus' the Plague and David Hume's an Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, both bordering on completion.
Like I previously did with William H. Gass' In the Heart of the Heart of the Country collection, I'll rate and review each of Poppy's stories individually before concluding with a final review for the collection in its entirety; I'll refer to my notes to guide me on this bit while I type together my thoughts on what was Coming. Apart. -- punny:
'My Last Short Story' is essentially an editor's note that is one part fiction and one part reality--it isn't too difficult to discern what from what, but by the end of this collection, in retrospect, you realize some of what you might've believed was fiction was merely a cover for reality; in this intro-story, the narrator, who I presume to be Poppy herself, simply states she's aware of the state of these stories, that they aren't to the degree she wishes them to be, excusing herself for the reader--this alone should decide whether you should continue reading the book itself, as it reads more like a sorry preface than the story it tries to fool you into believing; it's clear as to why it's been placed first in the collection, after all, from what I've read of previous reviews, it was originally placed at the very end in the original Norwegian releases; if this were truly a letter to an editor, I feel as though they'd have dropped the project in its entirety after reading it--thinking about the collection in its entirety, this could've been removed from the collection. [40/100]
In 'Dungeness,' Coming. Apart.'s second story, as well as one of the better ones, I've virtually no qualms about, with the main problem being its horrific pacing--a theme which will surveil this review; it reads utterly vague, it's deliberately choppy, in a way that lacks all rhythm, but of course, this is a translation, it must flow much better in the original Norwegian, so that won't be a problem for this review, it's simply an observation; Dungness reads as though Poppy strung it together without a plot in mind, it's scattered, favoring something unstable rather than to take hold of anything real to build from--this may be intentional, but that doesn't imply it was executed well; there're oddities in this story, confusing happenings that would've worked better had they been sprinkled evenly throughout the text rather than being thrown in last minute--it was heavy-handed, and a heavy-handed nature ultimately disrupts whatever pacing this was beginning to create for itself; it feels as though I'm reading a summary of the story instead of the story itself: she tells you things instead of showing you; not to mention that this story, though transgressive, is transgressive literature without getting its hands dirty; there's potential in this story, but not enough for it to be memorable: [65/100]; Poppy needs a doesn't-take-no-for-nothing kind of editor to help her realize what she has in herself;
In 'Alone is Not the Same as Lonely,' certainly the most disturbing, and affecting, of the stories--it really doesn't go any further than this--we read of an incestuous relationship, and much doesn't happen; unlike the previous stories, the prose here isn't as fragmented or vague, only becoming gnomic at the most crucial moments where a choppy read would bring forth what power is in her storytelling--Poppy uses the story's setting and events as vehicles to explore the feeling of sadness, the human mind and memory, time, the narrator's environment and their upbringing; I've little to nothing to say about it, it's equally disgusting as it is great; a compact read that might follow you around for a while, at least until you pick the book up and read 'Alone is Not the Same as Lonely' into the oblivion that is forgetting and not remaining static: [95/100];
her fourth story, 'Rain Divide,' starts off on the wrong foot for me--Poppy's way of expressing events is amateur-esque, in the way Jonathan Buckley's Live; live; live was, only without the pompous nature that comes with his superficiality; Poppy has the tendency to say one thing then follow up with a reiteration of it but in a metaphoric mode, failing in what she just tried to do, as though winding up boisterously for the pitch and loosening your palm so that the ball rolls from your hand and into the near grass rather than being catapulted by the cartoonish wind-up's potential--it seems as though the narrator isn't confident enough in their own narration, and this may or may not, too, be deliberate, but even if it was, this has its drawbacks; the pacing wasn't good at the beginning, but it gets better in the middle and ending, though the ending left me somewhat perplexed, not by what happens, but by the abruptness of the ending, which is strange of me to say considering me saying the pacing was good---you'd understand when you read it, but my guess is that the lines were supposed to be affecting; and it's also worth mentioning that some crucial key elements, much like the unstable ground Poppy builds stories upon, are left unresolved, and so it reads like a story with lost potential--[75/100];
in 'Boils,' considering the title, I actually expected this to be the more disturbing of the collection, but, surprisingly enough, it's as light as the others, save for Lonely, and yet, it is with this story where I realized a pattern: every single character in this story collection is freakishly pale and exhibits the same mental and physical characteristics as each other: every single character is described as emaciated, uncomfortably white, ghostly white even, while several don white hair, much to the point that the reader must come to grips with the fact Edy Poppy's aesthetic is the sexually transgressive nature of her unadmittenedly-albino creations, all of whom feel more like stand-ins than fleshed-out characters; and with this realization, one takes notice of the atonality of the collection itself, all the same things happen with nearly every story, even little things; my main criticism in this story is, again, the pacing, it isn't so good, the ending's abruptness doesn't emphasize anything, it serves no purpose nor does it have any effect on the story itself, only a negative one on the collection, signaling the thought of this being a neophytic writing--[80/100];
in 'Monitor,' perhaps my favorite of all, we read the stream of consciousness first-person account of the narrator interspersed by court documents about stalking, which, funny enough, these documents are what will give the reader an idea as to what they're reading--and it works great; it's compact, fresh, bears nothing of what I criticize her previous stories for, even the pacing's wonderful--it's dysfunctional, uncomfortable, punchy, and pitch-perfect--[90/100];
as for the last story, 'Repeat Ad Libitum,' we read Edy's story with the best pacing--it starts vague, but it begins to carve a path for itself the further you read; anyhow, the story's an overall [78/100]--the plot itself in the context with the previous stories is the proliferation of the same atonality, only louder, and, funnily enough, even symbolic of it as it features a piano that's referred to throughout the story--this story has every key signature of a Poppy story: relationships, a human's pallor, something unrequited, choppy language, and there it is, it isn't so memorable itself, but I appreciate it for what it is--I feel that I would have liked this story more had it been a standalone work.
Edy Poppy's stories are like her characters: struggling to exist, merely outlines or summaries of a real story, all in all, they've no proper body to live in, they're not given the space adequate for life as a piece of fiction; her prose reads like a sad attempt at minimalism, much to the point of deliberate grammatical errors, which aren't so bad, but like I've mentioned earlier, the flow is greatly reduced, and sometimes that's a good thing, but for entire stories to be written this way is only a peeve than a storytelling experience; my review may read like an unfair slighting of Poppy and her writing, but I promise you that it is not meant to come off as this--much like her stories, the circumstances I'm under while typing out this write-up don't allow me the space to write any more than I already have.
[47/100]
Not every story collection is created equal--reading this makes me greatly miss the erudition and creativity of I'd experienced when reading Jorge Luis Borges' Ficciones for the first time; perhaps I'll pick up Cortazar's Blow Up and Other Stories after I finish Camus' the Plague and David Hume's an Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, both bordering on completion.
October 31, 2025
Well written, but a slow read. The characters were all crazy in a disturbing and disgusting way. Not a pleasant read.
November 2, 2025
Cutting and clear, nice and tight shorts for the freaks and the feminists.
Read my full review here.
https://lonningspils.ca/2025/10/30/co...
Read my full review here.
https://lonningspils.ca/2025/10/30/co...
Read
October 20, 2025—You were only supposed to be together for a short while, her mother says. You loved her because you were going to lose her. I'm sure of that. (50)
interested in reading more someday by this author as her work keeps getting translated, but not a big fan of this short story collection… maybe 3.5 stars‽ too all over the place & shocking* just to be shocking* at times… maybe because currently reading a FANTASTIC collection of shorts / have read others more moving, that can’t really recommend this one much…
that cover design tho!! heart eyes for that!!
interested in reading more someday by this author as her work keeps getting translated, but not a big fan of this short story collection… maybe 3.5 stars‽ too all over the place & shocking* just to be shocking* at times… maybe because currently reading a FANTASTIC collection of shorts / have read others more moving, that can’t really recommend this one much…
that cover design tho!! heart eyes for that!!
June 10, 2025
Mitt første møte med Edy Poppy var både ubehagelig og spennende til tider. Et par av disse novellene likte jeg veldig godt (spesielt Regnskille) og noen av dem rørte ved noe som gjorde meg nesten urolig. Hun skriver rått, brutalt og drivende på det beste. Det var ikke alt som traff like godt hos meg, men dette var en fascinerende leseopplevelse som jeg satte pris på.
Ville gitt 3,5 stjerner om jeg kunne.
Ville gitt 3,5 stjerner om jeg kunne.
October 3, 2020
Fint skrevet, og jeg liker språket. Noen av novellene er bra, noen er ordentlig bra, men de fleste midt på treet.
October 9, 2020
Godt skrevet, noen av novellene var bedre enn andre. Historiene får en til å føle mye, litt vel mye til tider.
October 27, 2025
I’m just like what the hell!!
December 13, 2025
unfortunately one of the most unpleasant reads I have had in a while!
December 31, 2025
This book was very much not for me. Some of the stories were too disturbing for my liking
June 3, 2012
Nette, kvalmende og vakkert skrevne noveller. Stilig avslutting formet som et brev til redaktøren sin med frempek og ønsker for sin nye roman, sier hun synes hun ikke nådde helt fram med disse novellene, at de ikke var nakne og sanne nok.
Stilen minner mye om Jenny Hval, må hive meg fort på debut-romanen, og gleder meg til mer fra samme hold.
Stilen minner mye om Jenny Hval, må hive meg fort på debut-romanen, og gleder meg til mer fra samme hold.
Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews