Hello
Gentle Reader
Theatre
is a commodity for both entertainment and second hand emotion, which is to be
delivered with the greatest talents of oration and body language. Actors
however are only human puppets who give voice and body to the characters in
which they are told to represent with the greatest powers of their ability.
Actors are merely voice and body to characters far from their imagination.
Theatre technicians are more or less magicians and landscapers, who through
smoke and mirrors are able to conjure and project the image necessary for the
theatrical envisioned reality to find its physical space in which to occupy.
Now working both at a hockey arena and a live theatre, while slogging my way
through school—I have the unique position to watch the imagined take its illusionary
physical form. Yet who you don’t see the writer of the production. You meet the
actors of course; wound up to the point that they are as tight as ticks, the
introverted technician doing their best to interpret direction into the desired
form; and the director who sees fit to oversee the production, and ensure it’s
a swimming success. No line is dropped; no light out of place, no movement
improvised—everything must be tightly controlled. But the writer; they most
certainly have washed their hands of this project; they’ve completed their task
and moved on to something new. A writer (as it was once stated) is next to god.
They are introverted and quiet creatures, but beneath their bookish appearances
lay the most egotistical creator. In their minds resides a personal paradise, a
place reserved and untouched by others, populating this world are the most
subservient of people, who will do as dictated and instructed. With a scribble
of a pen, this world will come into existence; with a strike of eraser or pen,
the world can change. Magdalena Tulli herself had commented on the absentminded
ability of people to create worlds with impulsive fervor and then soon lose
interest in them, where they pop and dissolve back into the nothingness in
which they were fabricated from. Writers I can only presume write, and once the
craft is honed and completed its left at that; what is on the page is the
beginning and the end of their involvement. Actors are to bring to life the
characters which have been envisioned, while technicians use light, smoke, and
mirrors to decorate the world imagined. Beyond this though, writers it appears
have no interest in their creations. Too many chefs in the kitchen is after all
rather damaging to the ego; and when someone else has a different idea as to
how your characters should act or behave, will certainly leave ones toes
throbbing. The meddling of other associates and reality itself can never truly
come to achieving the imagined world, which has been documented on the page.
Jon
Fosse is the worlds most performed living playwright. He has written around
forty plays including adaptions; with his debut play: “Someone Is Going To
Come,” written in nineteen-ninety two to nineteen-ninety three, and was first
produced in nineteen-ninety six. The theatre has not been Fosse’s greatest love
or even h is foray into it. His first love and debut into literature was prose,
in which he debuted in nineteen-eighty three with “Red, Black.” He did not turn
his eyes to the theatre until he was in his mid-thirties. Yet in two-thousand
and fourteen, Fosse has ended his affair with the theatre, stating he would
prefer to write more slowly and less of course, and the thought of writing a
new play does not bring any sense of enjoyment or pleasure for the writer.
Though
Jon Fosse has written many plays, novels and poems, and has been translated
into more than forty languages, the reception of his theatrical dramas in the
English language, have been polite but ambivalent or muted at best. There is no
denying Fosse’s talent for the theatre, with his splintered dialogue, silences,
pauses; all reminiscent of Samuel Beckett and Harold Pinter; yet Fosse brings
something else to the table with both his prose and dramatic texts; there is a
certain poetic stream of consciousness movement, and a lack of absurdity or
humour, and a more cooler and apprehensive take to his desolate scenery and
equal hesitant characters, completely uncertain with regards to life. The
characters of Fosse’s universe are marooned and are often at odds with their
life and their surroundings; and yet they always appear apathetic or incapable
of doing much else beyond brooding over the casual existential anxiety which
looms well overhead. It could be said the English stage is less welcoming or
forgiving of those it deems of foreign languages. Despite the lack of
appreciation or warm enthusiasm Fosse has received in the English language
world, he is world renowned and successful. There is not a year that goes by in
which Jon Fosse is noted a noted possible contender for the Nobel Prize for
Literature; were in two-thousand thirteen looked like his year.
Two
years ago Jon Fosse received the Nordic Council Literature Prize for his
Trilogy: “Andvake,” (“Wakefullness,”) “Olavs Draumar,” (“Olav’s Dream,”) and “Kveldsvævd,”
(“Weariness,”).
The
adjudicating committee for the prize had the following to say about Jon Fosse’s
win:
“This
year’s prize winner is a rare example of innovative style hand in hand with
content that has the ability to touch readers across time and place. Conveyed
in a highly poetic form of prose and with a wilfully playful attitude to the
narrative, this love story spans all times and no time. Like few others, the
author manages to chisel out a highly personal literary form. Weaving biblical
allusions, Christian mysticism and poetic imagery into the tension of the plot
in a way that opens up the story of two people in love to a wider world and to
history.”
Jon
Fosse’s trilogy is less then two-hundred pages in length, but in its small
packaging, it packs a poetic punch, which novels twice or tripe its size fail
to achieve.
“Andvake,”
(“Wakefulness,”)
The
first in the Trilogy, introduces the characters Asle and Alida, two poor and
unfortunate souls lost and wondering – whose circumstances mimic that of Joseph
and Mary, in the famous nativity story. Alse and Alida are poor, homeless and
Alida is pregnant. The short novella showcases Fosse’s renowned style: his long
meandering sentences, his repetitive and stream of consciousness style, and his
almost simplistic (yet hypnotic) vocabulary, not to mention the hallmark of his
theatrical works, the splintered dialogue.
Through
the novella the reader is given witness to the plight of Asle and Alida,
orphans left abandoned to the world. Asle’s father had died when he was
younger, but he remembers the fiddle his father played at weddings (where by
happenstance he would meet his future love: Alida), and as the novel opens his
mother is also now deceased, which leaves Asle to the cruel world on his own. Unfortunate
turns to misery shortly after, where the boat house in which he lives in is
repossessed by its owners who informs Asle and Alida to vacate. Alida’s
prospects are no better either, her mother and her are at each other’s throats.
Ma Herdis has greater faith in Alida’s sister Oline (described as the ‘good
one,’ or ‘the white one,’) was more capable of taking over the farm. Desperate
times call for even greater desperate measures; thievery and perhaps some
murderous intrigue in the mix. Fosse however allows such dramatic events to
play off stage and are commented on with an understated inclination.
The
novella finishes with Asle and Alida in Bjørgvin seeking a room for rent, where
they are out of the rain and the autumn chill. Much like Joseph and Mary
though, they are met with insult, injury or a slammed door. No one could
possibly desire to take such people in. Salvation can only come when it is once
again taken, and so Alida should release her child into a cruel world, which
has only been capable of receiving him through cruel actions. Yet despite the
actions of Asle and Alida, there is always a sense of pity and sympathy which
radiates from their souls and shadows; where forgiveness is sought, and through
kind portrayals given.
“Olavs
Draumar,” (“Olav’s Dream,”)
No
one can escape their past. Change your name. Sweep your past beneath the rug.
Stay in the fog. Solitude and silence is ally and lover. Yet every shadow
follows like a stray dog. No one can retain opaque perspective or image
forever.
In
“Olav’s Dream,” Asle and Alida now run hide among assumed aliases: Olav and
Asta with their new born child Sigvald. They live on the outskirts of town,
scrapping together a meager existence, for themselves, but it was better than
their previous life and circumstances. Olav has decided to head off to Bjørgvin
where he will procure rings for Asta and himself, to solidify their status as
an item. As Olav leaves the house however, Asta remarks it will be the last
time she will see him.
On
his journey to Bjørgvin Olav is referred to by a similar name: Asle. He does
his best dissuade this remark as nothing more than a mistaken identity. Yet the
man who calls him Asle does not let up on Olav, and again refers to him as
Asle. Thankfully Olav is capable of shaking the unwanted spectator off, and
makes it Bjørgvin—though it’s not much a sanctuary in itself. It is here though
Olav is treated to a few tankers of beer, and even finds the most beautiful
bracelet in which he is able to gift Asta. The most wonderful bracelet, which
she so fittingly deserves. Luck and love is always in short supply; and unrest
is quick to absorb such a small commodity within its quantity. The man from the
past resurfaces once again, and this time confronts Olav about questionable
actions he has done when he was Asle.
Innocence,
love, crimes of desperation with passion as reason—these are no longer
excusable; as fate now requires payment and penance, through the noose of
justice. Olav’s life (or lie) quickly shatters and dissolves around him. The
bracelet for Asta stolen; the life he dreamed for his family and himself is
quickly tied off with a tourniquet. Asle is brought forward on accusations of
murder, and by the law of the day (whichever unfortunate day this is) he is to
meet his maker through the same shadowy old geezer who exposed him, who now is
given the satisfaction of ruining and taking Olav’s life, as hangman.
“Olav’s
Dream,” is perhaps my personal favourite of Fosse’s trilogy. It is often
reviewed and stated with Jon Fosse’s prose, that when one reads Fosse’s work,
there is a rhythm which one must get in sync with in order to truly appreciate
the repetitive and poetic qualities of Fosse’s prose. Often I’ve found myself
slightly out of step with the waltz of Fosse’s work, and yet now finally, with
the final passages of “Olav’s Dream,” his miraculous prose finally revealed
their poetic ingenuity and beauty, and left me cold with an uncertainty whether
or not it would be possible to continue. Finally it seems I got Jon Fosse’s
work, and it was a startling and welcoming revelation.
“Kveldsvævd,”
(“Weariness,”).
Conclusion
and curtain call. “Weariness,” opens with Ales an old woman ruminating on her
life. She recalls Little Sister who died young, and her older brother Sigvald
had left when she was still young and never return, though he played the
fiddle—much like his father Asle (Olav) and his grandfather Pa Sigvald. Ales
see her mother Alida through her living room window, and follows, her aged
mother into the kitchen the coziest place in the home. For the kitchen is heart
and hearth of any home: with stove, coffee and tea.
Through
Ales we see the conclusion of Alida’s life without Asle. Salvation was to be
found for Alida, now homeless and starving, doing her best to take care of her
still new born child: Sigvald. With the beginning charity of Åsleik, Alida is
treated to a meal and beer, and then a home, where she would work as his house
keeper, before finally marrying him. Though Asle still lurks deep in her
heart—and with a serendipitous hand of fate, she would find his stolen
bracelet, in which he planned to place upon her wrist; the most beautiful
bracelet in the world.
“Weariness,”
recounts with great clarity the events of Asle and Alida’s life. How Asle
murdered Alida’s mother, the boat house owner, the midwife; and through these
crimes, he is hung for them, leaving Alida in the cruel and unforgiving world,
where she returns to Bjørgvin to find Asle but in return once again finds doors
locked and slammed shut. In contrast to the depraved and uncertain world of
Alida enters Åsleik whose life appears to have gone in its mundane usual
certainty with no major hiccups or acts of desperation. He informs Alida of the
fate of Asle, though she cannot bear thought of her husband a murder who has
been hung.
Tragedy
however is in large supply for the lovers Asle and Alida. As Alida points out
Asle is in the waves, the sea, the clouds and the sky. He is there, around her,
enveloping her, and yearning for her. Ales comments early, she never saw her
mother Alida old. As the novella ends, Alida is caressed and carried out to the
sea, to be with her beloved Asle.
Concluding
Thoughts –
Jon
Fosse is an expert in the miniature and the minimal requirements to get the
biggest impact in his writing – a trait that is greatly admired (at least on my
end). However, Fosse’s language a already noted requires a certain amount of
synchronization in order for the affect to be profound, provocative and to
truly realize how he has staked his claim as one of the greatest writers at
work on the international literary stage. Personally, I find I either read to
fast, or skim lightly and often am not capable of slipping into his rhythmic language
often; but when I have, it’s an amazing impact, which leaves one completely
cold in the way the best writers are capable of managing it. Fosse’s use of
simple repetitive language to create a profound poetic love story and love song
to the unfortunate lovers fighting against fate and life is an endearing read.
It has many mystical as well as theological overtones, with comparison to the
nativity story; but all inclinations of religious themes begin and end here.
Fosse’s work is his own, and it’s a sharp shard of a gem which pierces and
penetrates, with sly mastery which evokes real sentiment, not second hand
emotions or panhandled sympathies. The plight is human, and the world is cruel;
but through it all love exists and moves forward, on the smallest string of a
fiddle.
Thank-you
For Reading Gentle Reader
Take
Care
And
As Always
Stay
Well Read
M.
Mary
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