Here you can read Elnglish excerpts from a few of my books, originally written in Norwegian.
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Son of Dust, 1998
«It could have been asbestos. Fireproof. Or was
it inextinguishable, strands of hair and of down.
They could not be seen. Gray, it flamed gray. He had
to gather every grain. It made all the difference. Do
you hear? All the difference. Little Emil slept back
then in a tatted bonnet from his father’s
mother. The bonnet lay in place upon the down. It lay
so tenderly in place and blended in with his baby
head. Little Emil had had another bonnet at first.
Don’t think about that first bonnet, which went
down. This second bonnet had an edging that brought
to mind the forest. What could a tatted bonnet edging
have to do with a forest? The tatting had something
to do with a marsh and with globeflowers.
That’s how it was with everything that lived.
It all had something to do with a marsh and with
globeflowers. Under the bonnet lay the downy head.
That light, perishable down. Everything has its time
under heaven. A time to rise, and another to sink. A
time for down, and another without. Sleep now, my
little prince, when I blow out the
light.»
(Translated by Susan Schwartz Senstad)
I Naomi’s House, 1993
«Coming from the center of Kigali, you turn down
along the path beside the bar, Imararungu, to get to
Naomi’s house. Kigali is made up of hills and
valleys; people live up or down. Naomi lives in a
hollow.
In the middle of the capital city and right near
the central hospital lies the military base. At every
single improvised roadblock there stands a band of
young soldiers. It has been this way since October,
1990.»
Download an introduction to the
book and more excerpts in word-format.
I Light of Death – a story about dying,
1992
«To die is ordinary. It may be dramatic or
quiet. But it does not have to be anonymous. Or
gloomy. How we leave the world is just as important
as how we come into it.
We can live until we die. Even a consuming illness
does not choke off all expression of life. Life has
its own, curious tenacity.
This book contains some thoughts on dying one's
own death, and then a story about doing just that. A
dying person reads, dances, listens to the news, puts
on make-up, has her picture taken. The world is not
far away. And all the while, her hair keeps on
falling out from chemotherapy.
If this is dying, then it is so many things.
Serious and funny.
When you've photographed someone who then dies,
you cannot do it over again. As an expressive medium,
photography has its awful and fascinating
singularity. Its absolute-instant. Its never-again.
When the person you have photographed has died,
photography's singularity becomes even more
striking.
I cannot photograph my mother again. Only the
darkroom work can be done now. More or less light on
her face? Each second of light matters.
These photographs from a person's last two months
show how important it is for the one who is dying to
be seen; and how someone who is very ill can still be
there, be present until she no longer breathes.
But why the photograph of the little Romanian girl
at a market near the Russian border? And why the
little Jewish girl by the Wailing Wall in
Jerusalem?
It is January, 1991. This dying woman is hungry
for news reports. She travels via books. A library
deathbed. In the world is where she is dying, in a
consciousness not far from Eastern Europe, not even
far from the Middle East.
And as most other people who are dying, she
recalls tender, brutal and amusing episodes from her
own childhood. She wants so much to tell them; does
tell them, and with a passion.
Perhaps this is also a story about how important
stories are.»
(Translated by Susan Schwartz Senstad)