Vigdis Hjorth Quotes

If we knew, if we understood when we were young how crucial childhood is, no one would ever dare have children.

The relationship between mother and son and mother and daughter is different, because the mother is a mirror in which the daughter sees her future self and the daughter is a mirror in which the mother sees her lost self.

She practised losing with style and good grace and not ruining today by mourning yesterday's losses or fearing tomorrow's potential losses, to be like the lilies of the field and the birds of the heaven, which are present in the now, silent and obedient, to gather moments of joy with which she could warm herself if times get tough, she had a feeling that times might get tough.

Man blir ikke snill av å ha det vondt. I regelen blir man slem av å ha det vondt. Krangelen om hvem som har hatt det verst, er barnslig. I regelen forkrøples de undertrykkede og får et ødelagt følelsesliv, i regelen overtar de undertrykkede undertrykkerens tankegang og metoder, det er undertrykkelsens mest imfame konsekvens, at den ødelegger de undertrykkede og gjør dem mindre i stand til å frigjøre seg. Det skal hardt arbeid til for å gjøre lidelsen om til noe som er nyttig for noen, særlig for den lidende selv.

A letter is practically a gift.

If you're lucky enough to be successful, you mustn't forget that, the skills you acquired when you were utterly miserable.

What do we do with our despair if our lives are too small to contain it?

The relationship of a work of art to reality is uninteresting, the work’s relationship to the truth is crucial; the true value of the work doesn’t lie in its relationship to a so-called reality, but in its effect on the observer.

Det händer att det som inte sker är det viktigaste som händer en dag

We all carry our mothers like a hole in our souls, small or big, living or dead.

Han sa som filosofen, att han inte skrev för att övertyga dem som var oeniga med honom, utan för att de som var eniga skulle förstå att de inte var ensamma. (s. 172)

She believes in love, she has to believe in it, there is nothing else to believe in.

The year has sixteen months. November, December, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, November, November.

Hatanın annemde olduğunu günün birinde anlayacaklarını umuyordum. Annemin bana dair takıntısının kendi sorumluluğu olduğunu, benim çocuk, onunsa yetişkin olduğunu anlayacaklarını umuyordum.

Funny how random it seems, our meeting people who later prove pivotal to our lives, who will affect or directly influence decisions that will cause our lives to change direction. Or perhaps it's not random at all. Can we sense that certain people might nudge us onto a path we consciously or subconsciously would have taken anyway? And so we stay in touch with them. Or do we have a hunch that some people might challenge us or force us off a path we want to take, and so we decide not to see them again? It's remarkable how important just one person can become in determining how we act in critical situations, just because we happened to consult that individual in the past.

Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haine Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai Sailboat Table (table by Quint Hankle) The Voyage of the Narwhal, by Andrea Barrett Complete Stories, by Clarice Lispector Boy Kings of Texas, by Domingo Martinez The Marrow Thieves, by Cherie Dimaline A Brief History of Seven Killings, by Marlon James There There, by Tommy Orange Citizen: An American Lyric, by Claudia Rankine Underland, by Robert Macfarlane The Undocumented Americans, by Karla Cornejo Villavicencio Deacon King Kong, by James McBride The Dutch House, by Ann Patchett Will and Testament, by Vigdis Hjorth Every Man Dies Alone, by Hans Fallada

Sailboat Table (table by Quint Hankle) The Voyage of the Narwhal, by Andrea Barrett Complete Stories, by Clarice Lispector Boy Kings of Texas, by Domingo Martinez The Marrow Thieves, by Cherie Dimaline A Brief History of Seven Killings, by Marlon James There There, by Tommy Orange Citizen: An American Lyric, by Claudia Rankine Underland, by Robert Macfarlane The Undocumented Americans, by Karla Cornejo Villavicencio Deacon King Kong, by James McBride The Dutch House, by Ann Patchett Will and Testament, by Vigdis Hjorth Every Man Dies Alone, by Hans Fallada The Door, by Magda Svabo The Plot Against America, by Philip Roth Fates and Furies, by Lauren Groff The Overstory, by Richard Power Night Train, by Lise Erdrich Her Body and Other Parties, by Carmen Maria Machado The Penguin Book of the Modern American Short Story, edited by John Freeman Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates Birds of America, by Lorrie Moore Mongrels, by Stephen Graham Jones The Office of Historical Corrections, by Danielle Evans Tenth of December, by George Saunders Murder on the Red River, by Marcie R. Rendon Leave the World Behind, by Rumaan Alam Ceremony, by Leslie Marmon Silko On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong The Unwomanly Face of War, by Svetlana Alexievich Standard Deviation, by Katherine Heiny All My Puny Sorrows, by Miriam Toews The Death of the Heart, by Elizabeth Bowen Mean Spirit, by Linda Hogan NW, by Zadie Smith Being Mortal, by Atul Gawande Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Firekeeper’s Daughter, by Angeline Boulley Erasure, by Percival Everett Sharks in the Time of Saviors, by Kawai Strong Washburn Heaven, by Mieko Kawakami Books for Banned Love Sea of Poppies, by Amitav Ghosh The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje Euphoria, by Lily King The Red and the Black, by Stendahl Luster, by Raven Leilani Asymmetry, by Lisa Halliday All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides The Vixen, by Francine Prose Legends of the Fall, by Jim Harrison The Winter Soldier, by Daniel Mason

Det er rart å tenke på hvor tilfeldig det er at vi møter mennesker som skal bli avgjørende for hvordan livet vårt utvikler seg, som skal komme til å påvirke eller direkte bevirke valg som gjør at livet vårt forandrer retning. Eller er det ikke tilfeldig? Værer vi at mennesket vi står overfor kan komme til å dytte oss inn på en vei vi bevisst eller ubevisst ønsker å gå? Så vi følger opp møtet. Eller fornemmer vi at mennesket vi står overfor kan komme til å utfordre eller presse oss av veien vi vil vandre og derfor ønsker vi ikke å se det igjen? Det er rart å tenke på hvor viktig et enkelt menneske kan komme til å bli for hvordan vi handler i avgjørende situasjoner, fordi vi har konsulert akkurat det.

Mitt alminnelige liv, min helt alminnelige torsdag eller fredag, er den verdt å fortelle om? Hvordan kan jeg insistere på alvoret når det ikke er mer enn dette? Jeg har ikke noe på lager, ikke noe mord, når begynner den historien som rettferdiggjør alle ordene?

Det finnes ikke ideer i hodet hans, bare begivenheter.

Renslighet er en dyd som hører til arbeiderklassen.

Så blir hun smidd i hymens lenker og snubler ned midtgangen til Mendelssohn. Ute blir de møtt med kaskader av ris fuglene siden skal spise, svulme opp og dø av.

Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai Sailboat Table (table by Quint Hankle) The Voyage of the Narwhal, by Andrea Barrett Complete Stories, by Clarice Lispector Boy Kings of Texas, by Domingo Martinez The Marrow Thieves, by Cherie Dimaline A Brief History of Seven Killings, by Marlon James There There, by Tommy Orange Citizen: An American Lyric, by Claudia Rankine Underland, by Robert Macfarlane The Undocumented Americans, by Karla Cornejo Villavicencio Deacon King Kong, by James McBride The Dutch House, by Ann Patchett Will and Testament, by Vigdis Hjorth Every Man Dies Alone, by Hans Fallada The Door, by Magda Szabó The Plot Against America, by Philip Roth Fates and Furies, by Lauren Groff The Overstory, by Richard Power Night Train, by Lise Erdrich Her Body and Other Parties, by Carmen Maria Machado The Penguin Book of the Modern American Short Story, edited by John Freeman Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates Birds of America, by Lorrie Moore Mongrels, by Stephen Graham Jones The Office of Historical Corrections, by Danielle Evans Tenth of December, by George Saunders Murder on the Red River, by Marcie R. Rendon Leave the World Behind, by Rumaan Alam Ceremony, by Leslie Marmon Silko On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong The Unwomanly Face of War, by Svetlana Alexievich Standard Deviation, by Katherine Heiny All My Puny Sorrows, by Miriam Toews The Death of the Heart, by Elizabeth Bowen Mean Spirit, by Linda Hogan NW, by Zadie Smith Being Mortal, by Atul Gawande Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Firekeeper’s Daughter, by Angeline Boulley Erasure, by Percival Everett Sharks in the Time of Saviors, by Kawai Strong Washburn Heaven, by Mieko Kawakami

Havaya kaldırıp ışıkta incelemek, onaylamak, kabul etmek ve sonra unutuşun denizine atmak?

Jag bodde i hennes kropp i nio månader, hon födde mig under smärta och såg till att jag inte dog, jag sög mjölk ur hennes bröst, hon tvättade min kropps avfallsämnen och klädde mig i rena kläder, lade mig i en säng, jag utgår ifrån att den var varm. Hon vyssjade och bar mig, även om det var med största ambivalens, borstade mina tänder när de kom, lärde mig att prata [..] Den människa jag en gång upplevde mig själv som en del av, var symbiotisk med, totalt beroende av på alla sätt, den som om den försummade mig hotade min existens och som jag därför följde med argusögon, med öronen på skaft, hade hela min sinnesapparat riktad mot, vad viskade hon i mitt öra då hon vyssjade och bar mig, den första sång jag höra fick

The mother in real life, our experience of the individual, actual mother, is interwoven with the mythical mother, poor Mum and every mother and I who all bear the mythological cross.

I wonder if Mum always felt that being my mum was incompatible with being herself?

She has written in her diary that she is waiting for the heartbreak that will turn her into her true self. She has an impending sense of doom or possibly her own death

Jag tänker på älgens svarta ögon och ritar dess tunga jordbundna gång med kolkrita, jag kan lämna in kolteckningar till den retrospektiva. Jag går ut och lägger mig på vallen, sluter ögonen och känner efter hand en intensiv fysisk kontakt med den knöliga mossan under mig, fukten från marken som långsamt sipprar upp i anoraken och överdragsbyxorna och gör mig våt och jag sjunker inåt i mig själv och känner jordens våta tyngd dra mig till sig och det blir klart för mig att det inte är till himlen vi ska vända oss, utan nedåt

Hög himmel, svala nätter, doften av rötter och löv och orrens smatter, ett blankt spindelnät i solskenet, världen vilar fridfullt, det känns som om jag är från jord, inte mor

Det måste vara konstigt att ha bott ihop så länge, så tätt inpå en annan, dag efter dag, natt efter natt, år efter år, sedan dör den ena och blir jord

Jag kör med hjärtat i halsgropen, det dunkar i svalget medan jag närmar mig, jag vet inte vad jag ger mig in i, det är det jag ska ta reda på. Satte mig i bilen annorlunda än jag brukar, vad som än händer kommer jag att lära mig något om mig själv, jag är nyfiken på vad det är.

Den första sång jag höra fick, var mor som grät vid vaggan

Jag känner igen röstläget från ungdomen, tonfallet och ordalaget från ungdomen, bestämdheten och trotset och ilskan från ungdomen och min egen ungdoms förlamning och gråt i halsen och liksom då sjunker jag ihop och vill rymma eftersom allt mitt tunga insiktsarbete känns förgäves

Defalarca ondan nefret etmediğimi söyledim, ta ki ondan nefret edene kadar, anlattım da anlattım, bir kez daha anlatmak zorunda kaldım her şeyi...

Neden cevap vermiştim, tekrar bu işe neden bulaşmıştım, faydası yoktu bunun.

É estranho pensar na aleatoriedade com que aparentemente conhecemos pessoas que mais tarde se mostram cruciais no desenrolar da nossa vida: pessoas que afectam ou influenciam de modo directo as nossas decisões, originando assim mudanças de rumo na nossa vida. Ou não será assim tão aleatório?

Sybille Bedford escribe en alguna parte que cuando eres joven no te sientes parte de la totalidad, de la condición humana básica, cuando eres joven haces un montón de cosas porque lo vives como si se tratara de un ensayo general, un ensayo que se puede repetir cuando el telón se levanta de verdad. Y luego un día te das cuenta de que el telón ha estado siempre levantado. Eso era el espectáculo.

What do we do with our despair if our lives are too small to contain it?’ . . . .accept that there’s so much we’ll never understand intellectually and try to live with things which don’t add up, that what’s most important might be something we can only just sense, and teach our brains to illuminate our hearts and help us live with contradictions that can’t be cancelled out and become more open to the idea that being a mere mortal is enough, more than enough in most respects, and once we’re alive, and once we’re alive, try to live with gratitude and passion rather than shame and paralysis.” pp (153-154)

She was either outside the forest or deep inside it, swallowed up by the forest and a part of it, the sounds of birds and insects and running water and the smell of moss and rotting trees and new shoots and mushrooms and of animals that have only just disappeared.

Sailboat Table (table by Quint Hankle) The Voyage of the Narwhal, by Andrea Barrett Complete Stories, by Clarice Lispector Boy Kings of Texas, by Domingo Martinez The Marrow Thieves, by Cherie Dimaline A Brief History of Seven Killings, by Marlon James There There, by Tommy Orange Citizen: An American Lyric, by Claudia Rankine Underland, by Robert Macfarlane The Undocumented Americans, by Karla Cornejo Villavicencio Deacon King Kong, by James McBride The Dutch House, by Ann Patchett Will and Testament, by Vigdis Hjorth Every Man Dies Alone, by Hans Fallada The Door, by Magda Svabo The Plot Against America, by Philip Roth Fates and Furies, by Lauren Groff The Overstory, by Richard Power Night Train, by Lise Erdrich Her Body and Other Parties, by Carmen Maria Machado The Penguin Book of the Modern American Short Story, edited by John Freeman Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates Birds of America, by Lorrie Moore Mongrels, by Stephen Graham Jones The Office of Historical Corrections, by Danielle Evans Tenth of December, by George Saunders Murder on the Red River, by Marcie R. Rendon Leave the World Behind, by Rumaan Alam Ceremony, by Leslie Marmon Silko On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong The Unwomanly Face of War, by Svetlana Alexievich Standard Deviation, by Katherine Heiny All My Puny Sorrows, by Miriam Toews The Death of the Heart, by Elizabeth Bowen Mean Spirit, by Linda Hogan NW, by Zadie Smith Being Mortal, by Atul Gawande Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Firekeeper’s Daughter, by Angeline Boulley Erasure, by Percival Everett Sharks in the Time of Saviors, by Kawai Strong Washburn Heaven, by Mieko Kawakami

I don't miss anyone, the only thing I might miss is insight.

A mother can never be an ordinary human being to her children, and I am one of her children.

It’s understandable that parents, once they are older and wiser, want their children to look at them afresh. But no one can expect or demand of the children that they forget the image of their mother as they experienced her in their childhood or that they erase the image of their mother created over the first thirty years of their life and instead see her objectively as a seventy or eighty-year-old.

Someone who is in regular contact with their mother and who talks about the past with her, helps re-create the past, together they make history.

The lie some people need to live can be the undoing of others.

At ingen av dere på noe tidspunkt har spurt meg om min historie, har jeg opplevd og opplever jeg som en stor sorg.

Sybille Bedford bir yerlerde şöyle yazmıştı: İnsan gençken kendini bir bütüne, insanlığın temel ilkelerine bağlı hissetmez, insan gençken bir sürü şey dener çünkü hayat bir genel prova gibi algılanır, perde gerçekten açıldığında değiştirilebilecek bir prova gibi. Ama gün gelir perdenin her daim açık olduğu kafasına dank eder. Sahnelenen, oyunun kendisidir.

He picks up a butter knife far away and she reacts as if he was right next to her with an axe.

Nefesimi ne zaman versem ışık titriyordu, nefes aldığım sürece yaşıyordum, mevcuttum, nesneleri hareket ettirebiliyordum. Büyük bir sorumluluktu bu: nefes almak, yaşamak... Sorumluluk bana fazla geliyordu.