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Posts Tagged ‘WWII’

To me, childhood is this vast shadowy land that only begins to make sense the further you move from it. And by then, if you have a memory like mine, you probably only remember bits and and pieces. It’s a problem if you believe that “the unexamined life is not worth living”. Maybe that explains my predilection for coming of age books. I’ll let someone else do the hard work and see if it speaks to me.

But it isn’t quite fair to describe Out Stealing Horses as a bildungsroman. That seems too constrictive a label. It’s more like a three dimensional sculpture of different times and places, all fitting neatly onto each other. Sorry, that’s a bit labored. If I think of a better metaphor, I’ll let you know.

Petterson tells the story of 15 year-old Trond, who spends the blissful summer of 1948 with his father at a rustic cabin in the Norwegian woods. To Trond it’s an escape from Oslo. To his father it’s more – the villagers know him from his resistance work there during the war. Alongside this is the story of 67-year-old Trond, who has retreated from past sorrows and has returned to the woods, to try to regain a sense of himself as he was during that revelatory summer. It’s a complicated story to describe, and yet so sparsely and beautifully written I felt that I was not so much reading it as floating through it.

At one point Petterson pulls off the amazing feat of walking the reader through several places, from the perspective of several characters, all in the space of a couple of pages:

“Lars. Who says he did not think of his brother during the years Jon was at sea, but remembers the towns and the harbours he visited and what was printed on the envelopes he sent home and the names of the ships he signed on with and signed off from, and who followed with his finger in the atlas the routes the ships took. Already thin and slouching, Jon stands on deck close to the bows of M/S Tijuka grasping the rail tightly, peering defiantly with narrowed eyes at the coast they are nearing. They come from Marseilles, and Lars’ finger has followed the boat past Sicily and the tip of Italy’s boot, and diagonally, past the Greek islands and southeast of Crete something new is in the air, with a different consistency from only a day ago, but Jon does not realise yet that this new element in the air is Africa. And then Lars goes with him on the way in to Port Said in the innermost Mediterranean … all the time in the wake of the young poet Rimbaud, who sailed here nearly seventy years earlier to be another person from the one he was before and put everything behind him like a desert diver on his way to oblivion and later death, and I know this because I have read about it in a book. But Lars does not know, sitting with his atlas in front of him on the kitchen table in the house by the river, and Jon does not know, but in Port Said he see his first African palm under the low and violently blue sky.”

I read that passage and then reread it when I realized that I mind’s eye had smoothly clicked through these images: three men, one at a kitchen table, one sailing the world, and one by the fire reading a book about Rimbaud. What genius. And what an amazing job Anne Born must have done in translating the book from Norwegian.

The book has won international acclaim, and is the winner of the 2007 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. Authors for the award are nominated by libraries across the world. Though Out Stealing Horses was not one of Multnomah County Library‘s nominations, it is a fitting winner. The library owns 29 copies of this book and there are currently 65 people in the queue, but it’s well worth the wait.

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