U ndrar if I ever so significantly changed the idea of a book in my reading of it. Up to page 75 of Kristian Lund’s new, as it is called, “autobiographical novel” – which, incidentally, begins where the first part “A hometown” of 2013 ended – I understand just what it is about. The text is vague, poetic, based on repetition and moves in circles around anything that does not seem possible to predict and that the author either does not cease to call it is not possible to name. Lundberg talking about an obscure disease that besets him and I do not even know who the pronoun “she” is referring to. Or rather, I understand that both the disease as well as the woman very much else is deliberately ambiguous and that the reader is waiting to understand. It is so far moderately engaging, more a curiosity about where everything should go.
But a few pages has all changed and continue, I read intently, greedily. It occurs when Lundberg tells of three letters, one from the father he has not seen in thirty years, then an email from one of his father’s acquaintances, and the last and most dramatic of a retired nurse who saw him on TV and understood that he was completely Lille and the affectionate boy she late 60s took care of a children’s hospital and hoped to adopt. The letter contains a number of images, including the book’s cover showing a woman nursing hat lovingly holding a small boy.
Lundberg has now in his hand the evidence of both abandonment and love and it degrades him, pulverize him. The pronoun “she” double exposed and becomes both the retired nurse and a psychiatric nurse as he embarks on a love affair with. The disease is called in turn as “bipolarity”, a name he certainly spit on, but fleshed out when the novel does despairing swoop in melancholy crises where Lundberg never sleeps, eats or drinks a week in the stretch then be added.
the book then takes the form of a disease story that gets a singular authority because Lundbergs language management not only talks about but also portrays the psychic collapse. The text does not indicate any development, hardly any dramaturgy; it follows another, own logic. Lundberg seems like writing about everything at the same time. Parts of the story are scattered here and there, synchronously, and the psychosis breakthrough described in an impossible, crashed metaphor, a Catachresis: “And I traversed, like the swallows, which kinglet in October when they crash against the window glass.”
Kristian Lundberg made her debut in 1991 with “by September,” and since then has published a series of books of prose and poetry. The famous “Yarden”, about the author’s time hourly Malmö Port, has among other things worked for theater and filmed by Måns Månsson.
The only way out from Lundbergs hell spelled love. A woman’s hand stroking his arm, a warm voice on the intercom asking if it is allowed to enter. But love can we become aware, also make a person sick. It would therefore be incorrect to say that love is idealized in Lundberg’s prose; it’s all and structurally occupy exactly the same place as the other in Lundberg’s world of maximum importance: the writing.
The writing and love placed literally in all imaginable and sometimes completely contradictory positions. To: “It is trite to believe that writing is healing, just as banal as to imagine that the world is beautiful and that love makes life easier.” But later he argues that writing does have a healing effect, more later to writing neither makes a man healthy or sick, and finally to the writing makes him both healthy and sick.
I mention, of course not see this as any kind of criticism. Rather stepping Lundberg as much poet as sanningsanspråkets right from an over sensible simplified opinions and complain of its very real complexity: all these attitudes show the different aspects of reality.
“days among shadows, trees and water” is not in any explains the technical sense Lundberg’s best book, it has flaws, longörer, unnecessary repetitions. But it carries a truth and inner necessity to the touch.
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