16 October 12 | JT Mahany | Comments

The latest addition to our Review Section is a piece by Larissa Kyzer on Per Petterson’s It’s Fine By Me, translated from the Norwegian by Don Bartlett and published by Graywolf Press.

This is the fifth book of Petterson’s to be published in English translation, the most famous being Out Stealing Horses, which won the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, and was named a Best Book of 2007 by the New York Times and many other publications.

Here’s the opening of Larissa’s review:

On an early morning in Oslo in 1970, Arvid Jansen shimmies up his high school flagpole and replaces his nation’s flag with that of the Viet Cong. Confronted by the headmaster in front of his classmates, Arvid takes the opportunity to expound on the evils of the U.S. occupation of Vietnam and Norway’s complicit foreign policy, all the time being observed from a far corner by his good friend Audun Sletten. “I guess it’s all very important,” Audun shrugs, “but I am up to my neck in my own troubles, and it almost makes me want to throw up.”

Frequent readers of Per Petterson have by now come to know Arvid Jansen rather well. In typical Petterson fashion, Arvid’s life has been examined in alternating atemporal versions set forth in In the Wake and, most recently, in the masterful I Curse the River of Time. Arvid is often the vehicle through which the author explores and recasts episodes of his own past—“[h]e’s not my alter ego, he’s my stunt man,” Petterson stated in a 2009 interview with The Guardian. Vulnerable, self-absorbed, and made miserable by hindsight, Arvid is an incredibly sympathetic character. If for no other reason than this, then, English readers should be delighted to now have access to one of Petterson’s early novels (first published in Norway in 1992): It’s Fine By Me.

To read the complete review, click here.

16 October 12 | JT Mahany | Comments

On an early morning in Oslo in 1970, Arvid Jansen shimmies up his high school flagpole and replaces his nation’s flag with that of the Viet Cong. Confronted by the headmaster in front of his classmates, Arvid takes the opportunity to expound on the evils of the U.S. occupation of Vietnam and Norway’s complicit foreign policy, all the time being observed from a far corner by his good friend Audun Sletten. “I guess it’s all very important,” Audun shrugs, “but I am up to my neck in my own troubles, and it almost makes me want to throw up.”

Frequent readers of Per Petterson have by now come to know Arvid Jansen rather well. In typical Petterson fashion, Arvid’s life has been examined in alternating atemporal versions set forth in In the Wake and, most recently, in the masterful I Curse the River of Time. Arvid is often the vehicle through which the author explores and recasts episodes of his own past—“[h]e’s not my alter ego, he’s my stunt man,” Petterson stated in a 2009 interview with The Guardian. Vulnerable, self-absorbed, and made miserable by hindsight, Arvid is an incredibly sympathetic character. If for no other reason than this, then, English readers should be delighted to now have access to one of Petterson’s early novels (first published in Norway in 1992): It’s Fine By Me.

Arvid is a prominent character in the novel, but it isn’t his story. Rather, it’s that of his troubled friend Audun, a young man who, with his “real problems”—a violent and drunken father who is, luckily, often absent; a beloved but drug-addicted younger brother, killed in a car accident; a lonely single mother struggling to support her children; and numbing jobs with long hours and little respect—is the actual embodiment of the working class hero that Arvid has so frequently wished to be. But as seen through Audun’s eyes, there’s nothing in the least romantic about his situation in life.

“It’s fine by me,” (reminiscent of Elliot Gould’s own cynical chorus of “It’s okay with me,” in Robert Altman’s 1973 adaptation of The Long Goodbye) is Auden’s go-to retort, forced in its apathy when pretty much everything that he remarks on is anything but. In fact, Audun cares a great deal about what happens around him—cares about his sister who he thinks may be in an abusive relationship, cares about a neighbor whose brother is getting into drugs, cares about Arvid and his family, cares about doing well in school, and literature, and Jimi Hendrix, and woodsy hideouts where he felt safe as a child. But isolating himself and not caring—or at least giving the appearance of not caring—is far easier and exposes him less.

Although there actually is quite a lot in the way of plot happenings, It’s Fine By Me is a rather familiar, somewhat anticlimactic coming-of-age narrative where the ‘what’ matters far less than the ‘how.’ This is by no means Petterson’s strongest novel, nor should it really be expected to be—it was, after all, one of his first. But although the flashbacks and overlapping memories fold together less seamlessly than in other Petterson novels, although the emotional pitch is generally less subtle (lots of capital letter exclamations when people are angry), and the visual metaphors more overdetermined (a beautiful runaway horse, turning just before it knocks over young Audun and Arvid), the novel is still compelling, and sometimes even quite funny. (A scene in which Audun and Arvid have to figure out how to put gas in Arvid’s father’s car is particularly delightful.) Petterson’s characterizations are always both sharp and empathetic, his prose measured, poetic, and visual. One feels connected to Audun—truly concerned for him—and yet, due entirely to Petterson’s writerly sleights of hand, the reader can distinguish between what has become entirely compressed and unified in Auden’s mind: run-of-the-mill teenage angst and real, emotional (and physical) trauma.

Through it all, Petterson allows for a quiet hopefulness, the possibility a better future for Audun. There is resonance in the clichéd assurances of a sympathetic neighbor: “You’re not eighteen all your life,” he tells Audun. “That may not be much of a consolation, but take a hint from someone who’s outside looking in: you’ll get through this.”

6 October 09 | Chad W. Post | Comments

This is a bit of a self-indulgent post, but yesterday I received a copy of the Bog Markedet, a Danish book trade magazine, that contains an article I wrote on the surprising success of Scandinavian literature in English translation. Since most of the people I know can’t actually read Danish, I thought I’d reprint the original English version here. Nothing terribly new to people who regularly read Three Percent, although it was fun using the translation database to uncover some trends . . .

Anyway, here’s the English original:

Surprising Success of Scandinavian Lit in English Translation

The American publishing industry’s overwhelming indifference toward international literature has been well documented over the past few years. From the oft-cited statistic that approximately 3% of all books published in the United States are in translation (a statistic reported by Bowker and included in an informal study by the National Endowment for the Arts) to an article in the New York Times entitled “American Readers Yawn at Foreign Fiction,” most of the news related to international fiction has emphasized America’s cultural provincialism. With the notable exceptions of Roberto Bolano (The Savage Detectives), Muriel Barbery (The Elegance of the Hedgehog), and Carlos Ruiz Zafon (The Shadow of the Wind), works of fiction published in English translation don’t get much attention in the mainstream media and almost never make the best-seller lists.

American publishers tend to point the finger at readers to explain this lack of international voices (the basic argument is that readers aren’t interested in reading works from the rest of the world, and the lagging sales prevent publishers from investing the necessary money in getting more works translated), but this is a moot point based on the relative lack of international fiction available in translation. According to the Translation Database I put together for the Three Percent website, in 2008 only 362 original translated works of fiction (280) and poetry (82) were published in the U.S. And in 2009, the numbers are even more dismal: a total of 327 translations came out this year, 272 works of fiction and 55 collections of poetry.

It can be hard to find a bright spot among numbers so miniscule, but there are a few things worth highlighting that provide hope for the future of American book culture—especially in relation to the translation of Scandinavian literature into English.

One thing worth noting is the sheer number of independent and small presses publishing literature in translation. In 2008, over 140 different publishers brought out at least one work of literature in translation. And of all the translations published last year, more than 80% were from independent houses.

The translation of Scandinavian literature is another bright spot: In 2008, 27 works were translated from Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, Finnish, and Icelandic and published in America. In 2009, that number rose by 33% to 36 titles. The most notable increases were in translations of Norwegian literature (up from 6 titles to 11) and Swedish (12 in 2008, 18 in 2009). In fact, in 2009, Swedish is the fourth most translated language into English, ranking behind only Spanish, French, and German.

There’s no single explanation for this significant increase (which is particularly remarkable considering the overall decrease in the number of works being translated into English this year), and not even the continued interested in Scandinavian crime fiction can account for this increase. It’s true that Ake Edwardson, Johan Theorin, Hakan Nesser, Roslund & Hellstrom, Steig Larsson, Karin Fossum, Jo Nesbo, and Gunnar Staalesen all have books coming out in English this year, but there are also four works of Swedish poetry and two books by Norwegian author Jan Kjaerstad.

Nor are these books all coming out from a small group of publishers. Granted, Norvik Press is doing a great job making Scandinavian works available to English readers, but the other titles are spread out over a range of small and large presses.

Whatever the reason, it’s encouraging to see this interest in Scandinavian literature. And with ventures such as Archipelago, Dalkey Archive, Melville House, Europa Editions, and Open Letter doing more and more translations every year, there’s hope that the numbers—both for Scandinavian works and international literature in general—will continue to increase and Americans will be “wowed” by foreign fiction.

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