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Bold text, open work. One poetics

POESI: Heart that stops beating is the narrator's pulse.




(THIS ARTICLE IS MACHINE TRANSLATED by Google from Norwegian)

Jón Kalman Stefánsson. The fish have no feet. Publisher Press

There is only one train to Oslo, and I have to be there. I jump, and fall into a bookcase. Will travel, but also with a book. Do not grab a colored cover. But most of all I want to hang out with you have intimacy mugshots on the cover. What is within permane I have not seen (in 2004) before: This is blogger Linda Skugge's diary from ten years. I buy the book. I buy the genre. "Diary." The text is uncontrolled. But is he crazy? Is it an actual diary, or is it dagbokisme? Is it spontaneous or libertarians, naive or naivism? Is It Writing By Teen Shadow? Or is Teen Shadow reconstructed by the adult Shadow? "I work hard to relinquish control and at the same time avoid producing literary dew meat," says a friend of Swedish poetry, another young author, ten years later. Tina Åmodt talks about her latest novel, the second one construction Prose. The debut book depicts civil engineering work in a sober way. Cement gets mixed, support works erected. Theorem is based on theorem that resembles normal prose but has the poetry's stance. In Jón Kalman Stefánsson's novel The fish have no feet touches Jacob's mortar. He has a binder in order for the mixture to hold in hops as a unit and "thereby make sense". The fish have no feet is a conglomerate of text. The book is a seemingly juxtaposed blend of narratives, poems, "a short essay on the power that destroys lives, which make the wilderness habitable," and is the world's most beautiful love poem. The book is stories from Keflavik and Nordfjordur, about Oddur and Ari, me, and Asmundur, Gunnar and Jakob. Seemingly hopeful in following nautical and association, seemingly spontaneous and fierce, affected and unsteady. But it's not crazy. I sit with a grasp of the fabric, a sense of what it is about. The binder in the book is the language. The language becomes the truth itself. It is quirky, flowing, sobbing, powerful and somehow desperately chasing after life, away from death. Cardiac arrest is the narrator's nerve.

Keflavik, baby. Jón Kalman Stefánsson is Icelandic. He was a poet. He broke through as a writer in 2007 with the novel Heaven and Hell. He wrote about being fish in traditional societies and was nominated for the Nordic Council Literature Prize. Three gongs. He was one of NRK P2's favorites the last time it happened. Stefánsson hits something untidy, also with a novel about what makes Iceland unorderly. Here it is not just about the sea, the fish, the love and working at a fishery reception in Sandgerdi, and traveling from home and attending. Travel often takes place in and out of Keflavik, this old fishing village that was created for a US-powered NATO base. This year's novel alternates between "before in time" in Nordfjordur and the modern and international Keflavik. Keflavik is the future, is childhood and in love, is a non-place, is black. All the best are in Keflavik. All genres are used to portray everything. Here is a high-quality, almost archaic language in the same section as fishermen's fellowship. Here are verses with uneven right margin, between blocks of dense text. The text here and there is an ocean that draws me far out on the Nordfjord. The text waves, comes in sets, and overwhelms me. But yeah, break it. Pragmatic information is concrete inserts to climb on: […] Thóra's words are waiting behind the darkness of the display. This is a Samsung mobile phone. Looking at the postcards and thinking, they show our dreams […] it stands in a city. Another city: […] The capital of Yugoslavia is called Belgrade. / It's morning. Frost and darkness rests over Keflavík and the small detached house, the sky is strewn with stars, it is like a piece of music […] "This is a Samsung mobile" and "Yugoslavia's capital is called Belgrade" is like Duchamp's piss – art because of its context. Besides, it places me in a concrete world, in a time, in a city. And here, on the quill, poetry comes into being. To say it with William Wordsworth: Poetry is created in those quiet times. Then I think clearly, and can convey chaos. Then it becomes sketchy skissology, the random case studies. At Stefánsson, repetitions also contribute to the effect. Here's a special love story. He falls in love with theme, events, phenomenon. The sea is one, the fish is one, and the heart is another. The narrator repeated a few words, pictures, points. Text-Darling stands so naked in front of us on the book pages, showing the narrator's psyche and condition. It is best known as writing in desperation and need. Nothing has to stop the story, it has to come out, and it has to come out now. Come on come on, sentence on sentence; fluid, often fine-tuned and precise, like the jazz program at Keflavik Naval Airforce Base from the 70's, which Ari and "I" listened to growing up. But suddenly the flow of prose breaks up: Dialogues are reproduced in the most effective way. Ari, colon and Oddur, colon: effective lists of Q&A (I do not understand this).

Uneven right margin is not enough for text to become poetry.

Poetics and history. "The throbbing heart" is a pulse through the script. The heart comes in all sorts of forms. It is an "idiotic muscle", a "mysterious space rocket", the "home of eternal childhood". The word "heart" is found on 33 pages, often two to three gongs on each side. Quantity is quality. Stefánsson shows that poetry is more than rigorous, strict precision. Do we have to discuss genres? I'm the one who stumbled across the bookstore, not the one who saw the right books on the right shelves. "But is it poetry?" is still a nice question to ask when asked to the right people. Ask Hans Børli, or "ask the wind, / Ask the tears by the night sea, Ask / a tallow-streaked old candlestick that answers you with silence: // Poetry is this one: that you are alive. // And overcome Death every earthly day. ” (From Hans Borliss's "Poetry".) Back to Norway during the war. It's dark years. Lyric evenings light up the capital. These happen in private or in public, but often with shoemakers as readers. They are young and fresh, but also older and experienced. But critics Odd-Stein Anderssen often think they are bad readers. He writes in VG on June 6, 1945: "The actors believe that poems should be performed in the same way as the roles in a drama, while in reality they should speak for themselves with their versatile means and be no pretext for the actor to act for own expense. ” In 1945 it was not the staged text, the performative language so hot, I should believe the cultural pages of the newspapers of the time. “Poetry should express simple and sympathetic feelings; poetry is something to be touched upon – otherwise there must be something in the way of the poem, ”wrote Erling Christie in VG a couple of years later. Literary writers write about contemporary literature from the same age: "Poetry is the rebellion of Sensibility and Fantasy against the all too easily understandable." Danish, but still: «Young, Danish Literature. 1930–1950 "portrays a good poem as" a richly faceted dialogue between the heartfelt sentiment of the real heart and the attempt of the perverse Brain to make the world according to its contradicted ideas ".

Dense text may also be open. Dense text can also contain possibilities.

"We said text, not poems," Norwegian poetry first lady Cecilie Løveid told. She talks about the profile generation literature from the late sixties. The Norwegian-Chilean author and musician Pedro Carmona-Alvarez also made a point out of the poem / text relationship. His first collection of poems looked like prose. The sentences went from the right to the left margin. It differs from the poem layout with broken sentences and verses. But uneven right margin is not enough for text to become poetry. The same applies to the other road as well. Dense book pages are not automatically prose. Dense text may also be open. Also, dense text can contain possibilities and associations. Poetry arises when the work opens to the unaltered; too many possible interpretations. It's open, but not meaningless. The binder is many enough. Not heart, Keflavik, Nordfjordur, fishing, fishing and fishing glue. But the consistency of the tone and moods, the narrative attitude. One must write and tell. For this reader acts Pisces whether what writing means to man. Scripture is juxtaposed with love, life, death: "Not even the sunshine managed to stop it, and at least not beautiful words like rainbow and love, they were of no use to the world, it was just throwing them – it all started with death." The narrator has a dualistic practice of language, a basic distrust. But at the same time a total surrender to writing as a basis of existence: "After all, death is the ultimate, what makes us silent, which takes away from us the pencil in the middle of a sentence, turns off the computer, makes the sun disappear, the sky burns . " To me, Pisces is most of all a Kalmani poetics.
Roland Barthes writes that "the reader's birth must be paid for with the author's death." Of all who die in Pisces, one will stand for this reader: the death of prose. The poem's death. The death of the essay. The death of the genre. Openings for someone else. And then, when it opens: the entrance of poetry into everything.

The book comes out September 1st.

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