Mr Gustafsson and random machine – Sveriges Radio

Sorry Mr Gustafsson that I rise to speak. I know you’re listening, I know that you think that you should say this myself, then it would be much better. I’m guessing you soon send an email that is not going to answer. An email in which you say what I have misunderstood.

Well, this is just one radio spots, but to do you justice should I read two texts simultaneously, with forked tongues.

for it is possible to say anything about you. And immediately opposite.

Now, I digress, such as You were so good at.

Once, I lived next door to a technician who showed a small device he constructed the size of a matchbox. The center was a black key. To the left, a green light at which it said “yes” to the right, a red light at which there was “no.”

It was a random machine. When was unsure pressed the button.

My neighbor came from Lars Gustafsson’s regions and I wonder if God had provided Gustafsson with one of those random machine. Because when Mr. Gustafsson was most debates, he could deliver the preposterous views anytime at breakneck speed. For, as he himself pointed out: he was going faster than an electric typewriter could get the words.

Dear Mr Gustafsson, I think I have come on your secret. You had two brains during your earthly life. One who produced opinions on the most diverse topics. The brain derived energy from gnällbältet. One who could write the most beautiful words, the brain was linked to the Milky Way.

In between lies Kolbäck, Berlin and Austin.

If any writer in itself escaped a world it was Lars Gustafsson. A world where all of Texas got a place in his garden, a world where Kolbäcksån is mightier than the Mississippi. Mr Gustafsson had a lot, but not a sense of proportion. Precisely because he saw earlier than anyone how Folkhemmet crackled in the novel series The cracks in the wall . Therefore, he could create compelling surrealism in the short story collection Preparing to flyk T. Therefore, he could do skälmromaner as Bernard Foy’s third castling . Therefore, he seemed to know everything about American foreign policy, Wittgenstein, badminton, Bach, how to serve in tennis and Hegelian dialectics.

You had so much to do that you did not have time to doubt. And why would you do that. Doubters ports in the academy, you wanted more. In the poem. And the secret knew you:

The outermost antigen have their goals in themselves. As a wasted paper on the street. As the last frostbitten rowan berry. As an unguarded words of love as anyone remembers after fifteen years, and still smile at.

There are such things all things consist.

and secret glow of the senseless beauty.

But the beauty is meaningless, as You showed so well. You just tested our readers to check if we hung out with.

We do. So the pilot glasses, fold up the flaps, race the engine and take your Messerschmitt to heaven’s height. Soon the angels will hear everything worth knowing about Kolbäck and the Universe, and the occasional wing pen from the angels fall enough down here.