Det is a small, – thin and discrete book. Light gray cover, white book pages, simple and orderly typography in black. Neat, is the word that comes to me. Karolina Ramqvists personal essay, "It is night" is – neat. I’m not so sure that is the intention, but also the content is the same breathing children; well cared-for, properly, properly. There is anguish and passions here, but they are so strictly formulated – lent to the one closest to the ascetic ideal form – that they will to the reader on the factual distance.
"It is night" therefore rests on a paradox. It is, simply put, if the desire to be a writer, and that after you become the discover that it was also something completely different than what you expected. The starting point are the difficulties Ramqvist has to write a speech that she’ll keep on various public places in connection with the publication of his latest novel, "The white city" (2015). An author writes a completely perfect little text about how impossible it is to write a text – yes, there is a discord here.
not that I doubt Ramqvists sincerity of their qualifiers, but this behärskningens essay makes the reaction on the equally sober-minded: Oh, it is hard here to write and be a writer. Okay, then I know it. With threads to Virginia Woolf, Marguerite Duras, and Bodil Malmsten joins Karolina Ramqvist to a tradition of women who write about to be writing women. To choose the writing. Despite the fact that the world, both in the form of public expectations and actual people, want to tell you that it is a different, better role for a woman than to be in his own creation.
In the passages relating to this will be Ramqvist a little more vibrant, to eventually work themselves up to the simple truth that you sought complicated explanations: "I am writing to write. I dare perhaps not say it before I became a writer."
Most of all, however, "It is night" if klyvnaden, the dichotomy, which occurs when the author discovers that she is the author; that the author of the where the books are expected to coincide with a real human being to represent both itself and the literature out there in the world. What has the text with the author to get? And, further, what has the author with the self to do? Ramqvist, turn on these issues pregnant and solid, but the concentration will be in the end of clinical. Even when she writes about how the apartment is messy with children’s clothes, books, and yesterday’s leftovers, I see it in front of me as clean and tidy.
Not until towards the end of the 84 pages long essay, she starts to interest me, and do it seriously, first, in the very last paragraph. There, type Ramqvist like this about the author: "When the book is born, wiped her. It is also a dream, to be swept away." This picks Ramqvist up the longing for the absolute emptiness and erasure as Karin in "The white city" also houses, and that is fascinating. Now finally something happens here, I want to know more, and so is the book-end!
Inglorious, but at least consistently mediocre.
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