Hello
Gentle Reader
The
Finnish language is esoteric, both literally and figuratively. In the
linguistic physical sense, the language has only two other languages in the
world, which are considered its relatives: Estonian (and its neighbour) and
Hungarian. Finnish is the language of dreams, spells, enchantments and
incantations; it’s a language of divination. The sound of the Finnish language itself
continues to propagate such mystical thoughts of its people, who come from a
land of forests and frost. To further show this point one need only look at the
following sentence in English and the uniqueness of its Finnish equivalent:
[
English ] “Koko (name), gather the whole kokko (midsummer fire)! The whole
kokko? The whole kokko.”
[
Finnish ] “Koko (nimi ), koota koko kokko ( juhannus tulipalo ) ! Koko Kokko ?
Koko Kokko.”
Though
the translation presented above is from google translate, it does give a unique
idea of the complexities and morphology of the Finnish language. The Finnish
language is known to chance its word meaning based on syntactical structure.
Listening to the Finnish language spoken is equally a unique, with its shift in
tone, sounds and vocalisations; though deciphering where a period is used, to
signify the end of a sentence, is a challenge at times.
The
challenges of the Finnish language are why it is so underappreciated and under
translated, to the English language. Thankfully though, some works of Finnish
have found themselves translated into English, via anthologies, short story
collections, and of course novels. But to see an author’s entire oeuvre in the
English language is much harder to find. Yet again the eclectic reader will
always be able to find a sample of a Finnish writer’s work somewhere, in some
obscure anthology or magazine.
The
anthology in which I personally own is “The Dedalus Book of Finnish Fantasy.”
The anthology is unique as its collected samples and stories, range from the
contemporary to the twentieth century all the way to the nineteenth century.
The editor of the anthology Johanna Sinisalo wrote a wonderful introduction to
the anthology, by first and foremost discussing the historical landscape of the
Finnish language, and how its first written word, is by most historical grand
societies rather juvenile in contrast, to the grand literary traditions of
England, France, Germany or Russia. Yet as Sinisalo points out in her
introduction, the Finnish culture had a strong oral tradition of storytelling
and poetry, before anything was being transcribed or scribbled on paper. Yet
since then Finnish literary culture has been unique, often falling between the
traditions of the nineteenth century realist novel, the twentieth century
existentialist novel, and now the emergence of greater questions of identity,
privacy and the concepts of reality as science and technology takes us further
and further into what we would have once thought an impossible future.
The
now defunct “Books from Finland,” is perhaps the greatest resource if anyone is
interested in Finnish literature. There is a wealth of articles, stories,
poems, samples of novels, and essay as well as interviews, which will a reader
entertained for hours, as they excavate the archives of the site, and become
acquainted with new and exciting writers. “Books from Finland,” has (and
continues to) been a resource which has yet to have been exhausted. To this day
my e-mail archive is still filled with links to articles, titles and authors,
in which I have yet to fully research, read, and enjoy. One of these days I
will get around to that task, and read the work of each of those writers and
come to appreciate each of those writers, and dream of the day in which I can
finally own their work in English translation, and carry them with me in their
full novel format or short story collection, and even perhaps the odd poetry
collection here and there.
Now
Finnish literature is not entirely out of the English language perspective when
it comes to translation. There have been a few Finnish writers who have come to
have great success in the English language. The most recent and well known
writer to have had received that success is Sofi Oksanen, who is also
considered a global literary phenomena. However, Oksanen’s subject matter, deal
with Finland’s cousin: Estonia, specifically under the Soviet Union. In this
sense Oksana is not entirely a Finnish writer in her subject matter, but
discusses the complex and tragic history of Estonia. Oksanen achieved great
critical acclaim with her novel “Purge,” a novel that traced the lives of two
sisters who went separate ways during the occupation of Estonia by Soviet
Forces and ideology, but also of the contemporary problem of human trafficking,
and rampant corruption of former Iron Curtain states. For “Purge,” Oksanen
walked away with Finlands most prestigious literary award: “The Finlandia
Prize,” as well as the Nordic Council Prize for Literature; and the rock star
writer probing communist pasts, has continued.
There
are however, many authors – Finnish writers who themes are closer to home, that
are often overlooked; but are nevertheless great writers. It is now that I
would like to say thank-you to “Books From Finland,” for introducing me to
these writers, and some of which I would like to introduce below.
(
I )
Complicated
and tragic are the two words that come to mind when thinking of the Finnish
poet Helvi Juvonen. In the photos I have seen of her, she is wide eyed and
curious in one, with restrained sense of elegance; and the others wide eye with
paranoia, fear, and animal instinctual distrust. In her youth Helvi Juvonen was
referred to as: Nalle (Teddy in English). This animal reference would make
numerous appearances in her poetry, along with fairy-tale logic and eccentric
subject matter. However, do not be quick to dismiss the poet as being
lightweight or nonsensical. Helvi Juvonen was a serious poet, who had a unique
way of refreshing the world via new perspectives, but also discussed the
subjects of alienation, loneliness and suffering. Despite the subtle childlike
surreal streak can run through her poems: a goblin who shares its happiness
with a bee, a kettle that sings, or a tapir who talks to a stone – her poetry
has often been known for its foreboding religiosity and discussions of human
suffering. Helvi Juvonen wrote with her
eyes trained down, she not once dared to look to the sky; rather she wrote of
the moles, the lichen, the moss, the stones, and maggots under foot. Helvi
Juvonen however was a tragic character herself, she left her studies after
panic attacks over the final exams; she took a job as a bank clerk and then a
proof reader, while living in the bleak and squandered landscape of post-war
Finland. At one point she was well underweight, and her life as I remember
reading was filled with illness, struggles, and often tragic circumstances;
later in life it should be noted, that the poet made a living by her poetry and
translations, and was a adamant and accomplished translator of Emily Dickinson.
Despite her poetry often dealing with this suffering, this illness, and the
subsequent alienation and loneliness she felt because of it, there was often a
transcending sense of hope for humanity and human life, though often mixed with
mystical religious symbolism. In the following poem; taken from “Books from Finland,”
titled: “A New Game,” Helvi Juvonen’s form of god is intimate and someone in
which the poet can converse with. In the poem however, God is more a playmate
then an authoritative and omniscient
“A
New Game,”
By Helvi Juvonen
Phenomena
and circumstances toyed with me,
and
so I said to them:
You
have become really dull.
Now
I will start to toy with things myself,
and
when I grow weary,
I
will go away.
I
will find a new habitat.
God
the Father asks me thoughtfully:
Where
should I put you,
you
who have been capable
of
neither goodness nor badness.
Then
I will say it to Him,
then
I will say it:
Let’s
play that new game now,
the
one in which we are happy
and
everywhere.
It
becomes aware that the religiosity Helvi Juvonen is not strictly religious in
the traditional sense of ornamentation and holy praise. Rather it is subtle and
more spiritually inclined, then formally religious. But the final three lines
always strike me the most of her poignant ability to shine hope, especially
against the phenomena and circumstances of the current situation. To read:
“Let’s play that new game now, / the one in which we are happy / and
everywhere,” breathes new life and hope under ones wings to go on, and battle
the upcoming dawn and the new day.
Though she only published five collections of poetry during her life
time, and a sixth posthumously, Helvi Juvonen remains a remarkable poet of the
Finnish twentieth century literature, as a depicter of hope, spiritual
maturity, and childlike surreal perspectives which often show our humble
beginnings via the most miniature and overlooked aspects of nature. This leads
us to an end, and to depart with one of my favourite poems by Helvi Juvonen,
one in which her surreal and childlike observation gives a fresh new
perspective to the world.
“A
Fairy Tale,”
By Helvi Juvonen
A
fairy tale is going round the forest:
A
goblin child walks, a green scarf on her head,
and
a harebell tinkles, a silver jingle.
At
the places she touches with her hand, the grass revives,
the
troll folk go into hiding behind a tree
stump.
A
fairy tale is going round the forest in the guise of a goblin
the
haircap moss is dewy and the hay is fragrant,
the
white clover gives enough
nectar
and gold-dust to the bumblebee.
The
goblin eats nectar-bread and shares her joy
with
the bumblebee.
(
II )
If
you have read my Nobel speculation list, the name Sirkka Turkka will strike and
ring familiar. Animals have a particular place of fondness in the poets work.
In nineteen-eighty seven she received the Finlandia Prize for her volume of
poetry titled: “Tule takaisin, pikku Sheba,” or translated into English: “Come
back, little Sheba.” The volume of poetry documents and details the friendship
of the poet’s dog named Sheba. Animals are given greater love and tenderness, then
the human contemporaries. Her love of animals and the animal kingdom often
rings true in Turkka’s poetry, which is also reflected in her unique career,
holding numerous positions along with being a poet: librarian and stable
master. Yet one should not be quick to dismiss Sirkka Turkka as a simple nature
poet, who as a love and affinity for animals (be it dogs, reindeer, horses, or
hares), rather she is a poet who discusses and probes the level of grief that
the human soul is forced to endure and deal with. The death of a rabbit, the
suffering of a horse; these are all metaphors for the plight of human
existence. Yet it should be noted, the poet is not entirely concerned with
these solemn occasions. Her poetry is filled with irony, sarcasm, quotes from proverbs,
rock songs, and pop lyrics, all pastiched against the high style of the poets
work. What is always consistent with Turkka’s work is always the tone of the
poet. Tone becomes rhythm in how the topics, themes, and subjects are all dealt
with. Now as mentioned already, animals have a strong connection to Sirkka Turkka’s
poetry; but they are not objectively described as such. Rather the animals
which are placed within the poetry, are coded be our cultural perspective:
ravens, reindeer, foxes, elk, hares – these are creatures which are depicted
being wiser and more ancient then humanity, who is new, and destructive in its
intelligence; whereas the animals understand the natural order of the world,
and seek neither to improve it or usurp it. The following portrait or prose
poem comes from her collection “Minä se olen,” or in English: “It’s Me.” In it
we can see how the dog takes certain stage, but is quickly juxtaposed against
the experience of the human narrator of the poem. It should also be noted the
following poem is written in a prose poem like manner, or what was called:
Prose Fantasy, when it was first published back in the seventies.
“Something
kept me awake late. Something woke me up early. It’s four o’clock and the dog
is puzzled. He tries to continue his dream: he was just about to catch a
squirrel he barked at all of yesterday. He leaves me quite alone in silence, in
which not a single breeze stirs. What is in the past ceases to be, what is to
come has no significance. There is only the sun, just about to come up. And the
calm surface of the lake and the coffee cup, from which leisurely steam rises.”
With
her mixture of biblical proverbs, highly stylized tone, and then the use of pop
cultural lyrics, Sirkka Turkka often creates a unique verbal landscape in which
she details the challenges, the grief, the sorrow, and the hope of humanity. In
this sense, I always slightly consider Sirkka Turkka to the Polish poet and
Nobel Prize winner Wisława Szymborska. Both poets showcase a gentle wisdom
towards the world around them. They offer unique perspectives and thoughts on
the convoluted idea of the human experience. For Turkka if we wish to
understand the terms and words of love and compassion; loyalty and devotion;
wisdom and experience, we need only look to our natural counterparts: dogs,
horses, elk, jackdaws, foxes. In which I leave off with one more prose poem
from her collection: “Yö aukeaa kuin vilja,” in English translation: “The Night
Opens Like Corn.”
“A
poor dog has little to give to the moon. No luggage, no lighted rooms, no
compartments hidden in the heart. It has only its heart. Only a bark, long and
narrow like a tunnel, released from its brown muzzle. Like a small abandoned
ice-cube it zings from shore to shore. Strange, how the heart can be carelessly
left behind in bed-linen, on long, endless streets, in dust behind curtains or
in a glass, like teeth. Dogs ceased talking and received in place of a mouth an
inky line, but man lost his heart; his ear can no longer pick out songs from inside
a tree. He swears criss-cross on his
heart, he thinks it’s a distant island, or then he looks for it in his
trousers; in many, the heart looks like a bottom and vice versa. But in dogs it
is where it should be: just after the muzzle, boulder-like, baby-faced and
willing.”
(
III )
Genre
bending or format bending can often lead to some new startling and wonderful
results via this experimentation; or it can be a disaster of postmodernism
pastiche. In the case of Kaarina Valoaalto, it is a wonderful delight. Is it
poetry or prose; perhaps a prose poem, or poetic prose. Whichever the case Kaarina
Valoaalto has often kept readers and critics puzzled, but overjoyed with her
writing. To classify Valoaalto’s work as short stories would be misleading.
Rather Valoaalto’s work is summarized as slices and sketches from people’s
lives. Her work is best summarized then as small poetic vignettes. Yet both
people and animals are given the same weight, and the same character, in her
work. Valoaalto is capable of describing a dog with equal traits of a human
being, and with its own blend of mannerism becomes a realistic creature full of
intelligence and instinct on its own. Kaarina Valoaalto’s work is poetic and
sensual. One can certainly see the poet in the writer come through in her genre
and form bending work. She linguistically kneads and moulds the words like a
child crafting a unique format in which detail and outline the world. Just read
the following little extract from her work: Einen keittiö, Eines kök or English
translation: “Eine’s kitchen,” taken from “Books from Finland,”:
“This sort of
detached block of flats is as much of a living organism
as
the folk dwelling in it.
For
above are the brains and below are the intestines and outlets.
The
upper floors were flaunting their kitchen taps, sink-tops,
lion-clawed
sofas, mahogany chests and
sapphire-pendant
crystal chandeliers, flashing the violet-tones of sea and
rain.
Years
later these very things, like the previous generation’s taps and
furniture,
passed a ghostly underground life in the weird
chicken-wire-salons
of
their storage-spaces, telling about their former life, inviting us to share
their
phantasmal world of things and furniture, manifesting with moss
green
faces like the faces the graveyard dead beckon with to the living.”
Kaarina
Valoaalto is a writer who I wish was translated into English. Her work is
poetic, startling, and formalistically bending. She is the kind of writer, the
English language almost appears to lack, the kind who takes simple concepts of
the day and in quick and gentle brushstrokes shows the intimacy of such
moments, and the absurd epiphanies that are abound in the everyday mundane and
monotonous life. Specifically speaking “Eine’s kitchen,” is based off and
around her childhood and adolescent memories; taken from the perspective of a
sensitive child, who has a certain proclivity for poetry. The work itself
through the short and small samples provided by “Books from Finland,” is
startling, unique and original. Valoaalto lives and breathes new life to
language, and the poetic and prose formats, by marrying both forms.
(
IV )
Raija
Siekkinen was a master of the short story format in Finland. She died suddenly
and tragically though in two-thousand and four, during a house fire. After her
death though, Siekkinen left behind a strong archive of short stories, which
details the middle classes blights and plights, and materialistic requirements
to fend off the dark nights of the soul. When there is a hole, the path treaded
often is: fill it; in the case of Siekkinen’s short stories, the holes are bottomless
and often filled with continual new bright and shiny object, in attempt to ward
off the abyss and its alienation. In the stories of Raija Siekkinen tension
builds on the idea or thought that something will happen, which leads to the
memories of the past to become newly acquainted with the holders; as the
characters think about what will happen in the coming moments, months, years,
for somewhere down the line in their future. Raija Siekkinen has gathered
comparisons between herself and the Canadian short story master Alice Munro,
for their similar treatment of women’s souls. Where the two writers verge in
differences is, Alice Munro details the life of a women against the backdrop of
the societal or small town values of the time, whereas Raija Siekkinen
predilections move in a more poetic journey of the interior world of the women.
For Siekkinen the prose form and the lyricism of her writing gives rise and
essence to the of the music of the heart her female characters experience in
their darkest nights and their desperate hours. Such as the following sentence
taken from “‘Yöllä kello kolme,” translated into English: “‘Three o’clock in
the Morning,”:
“That
night, once again, she woke suddenly and was immediately wide awake, and even
without looking at the clock she knew that it was the darkest moment of the
night, when death breathed her own breathing.”
Much
like Ersi Sotiropoulos and Alice Munro, Raija Siekkinen writes of the
relationships of people – be it siblings, mother and daughter, or husband and
wife. However, unlike Sotiropoulos or Munro, the world in which Siekkinen
creates is far more pessimistic. Relationships as described by Raija Siekkinen
are at their most bleak and pessimistic. Relationships are best defined and
depicted in her short stories, as prisons in which her nameless characters
often find themselves confined and incarcerated in. it’s a sentence in which
the characters cannot break free from, are bound to each other in a continual
dismal prison. There is a lot of regret for her characters, they’ve past their
youth, and they are frustrated with their lives or their studies or career
choices. In doing so they are alienated from others around them, people who go
on with their normal and face-value happy lives, while her protagonists are
left to mull over their regrettable decisions or situations. Raija Siekkinen’s
stories are poignant, pointed and pessimistic. They give rise to the
psychological abyss and its landscape of every woman who questions her own
decisions, and life path. It would be difficult to discuss a positive
resolution being found in one of her short stories, which there never is, but
there is a subtle survival plan which is formulated with some, who manage to
continue living, and face the uncertainty in which the future holds.
(
V )
Eeva
Tikka is a biologist by education, and was a biology teacher before she turned
to writing. Her writing resume includes poetry, prose (short stories, novels,
and children’s books), and story-telling. Yet it is her scientific education in
regards to the study of life, which finds itself liberally placed within her
writing. Nature is nothing new to Finnish literature, but rather than being an ornament
or a lyrical landscape painting n beautiful prose, for Tikka it is both an all
engulfing arrogant foe in one instance, and in another it is a tender earth
mother, nurturing the surrounding landscape. Much like the preceding author Raija
Siekkinen writes in the grand vein of the realist tradition, often dealing with
middle aged individuals or middle class people; but just Raija Siekkinen she is
not a dime store kitchen realist or a garden variety realist; Eeva Tikka is a
psychological prober of the lives of her characters. Where she differentiates from
Raija Siekkinen, is that her work often finds itself, with a more positive inclination,
rather than facing the abyss and hopelessness of the human predicament in the
darkest hour of the night. Eeva Tikka is a highly lyrical writer, and depicts often
ordinary landscapes and ordinary lives, but beneath the surface the foundations
of the quiet life begins to fracture and crack, revealing the whirlpools hidden
beneath the normalcy of the otherwise content and complacent lives of the
individuals she depicts in her short stories. There is often a quiet strength to
her work, depicted by nature, and religious imagery, when relationships begin
to grow tense or break down. One such pivotal novel is “Hiljainen kesä,” or in English
translation: “The Quiet Summer,” which depicts the family drama and tension,
which builds after the youngest son of the family, drowns in a nearby pond
during the spring gales. The pain and transgression both past and new, come to
haunt the family, and tensions begin to rise as spring burns off into summer. What
has always struck me though as the hall mark of Eeva Tikka is her striking and
beautiful lyricism and poetic sensibilities, which often find itself being
placed in the short stories, that are available on “Books from Finland.” Her
work often deals with the sense of abandonment as the day’s progress forward,
and the years begin to add up behind them and be subtracted before them. Days of
youth are looked back upon with a sense of nostalgia only afforded to the old,
and the tragic longing for a time when everything made sense, is made all the
more poignant by the changing landscape, the breakdown of relationships, and
the ever present motion of moving forward without any other decision. Yet for Eeva
Tikka relinquishment and atonement, are forms of moving forward with a lessen
load, and a lighter sense of being, and often give rise to hope. Love maybe a disappointment,
and youth squandered and wasted and frivolous needs of the time, and these
regrets certainly shake the present day middle aged cage quite well, there is a
relinquishment afterwards and atonement for past mistakes. The slow passion of
her work, the measured tone and rhythm all work in Eeva Tikka, creating an often highly lyrical depiction
of the quietness of life, with often a great sense of wisdom and understanding
of how things should work – or rather what we’ve forgotten about the
naturalistic way of how things work. The following extract from the short story
comes from Eeva Tikka’s short story collection: “Hidas intohimo,” or translated
into English as: “A Slow Passion,” thankfully once again to the courtesy of “Books
from Finland,”
“I
don’t want to interfere with it. If something comes of it, then something comes
of it. You can’t interfere with time, or fate, or another person. Time ripens
things on its own. Fate takes a longer view of things than people do. Like the
prophet says, there is a time for every purpose, for my purposes and other people’s.
This
garden cottage is a good place to watch everything quietly, a ringside seat for
someone who doesn’t want to flail around getting smashed up. The potatoes bloom
when it’s time for them to bloom, depending on the length of the summer, the
weather, and the time they were planted. Their white and purple flowers are
worthy of admiration– potato flowers are flowers, after all. But when the
flowers are just opening, it’s not yet time to go digging around among the
roots. You have to restrain yourself and wait until the tubers form. You have
to wait until they’re finished blooming and the flowers are replaced by
plumping green, poisonous berries – though not all potato varieties produce
them. But if your fingers are really itching for them, you can poke into the
dirt and grope around a little before it’s really time, feel for tubers and
remove them carefully, patiently, leaving the plant undisturbed for the smaller
ones to grow. If the groping turns up something, you can slip away and savour
it, but you still have to wait before you can dig up the whole plant with its
rootstock, its beautiful pure tubers heaved up onto the soil, as if Life were
offering itself on a silver salver. Then you can have them. They’re ready. But
it takes time. Many good things are destroyed by impatience.”
(
VI )
Rosa
Liksom is a post-punk, post-feminist writer, who depicts a thorough debauched
world, filled with despair, destruction, and macabre actions – all quickly
sketched in icy lyrical prose, of a rather detached authorial presence, in just
a few pages in length. The reviewer Marc Lowe compared Rosa Liksom to Elfriede
Jelinek in a similar approach to literature, with a shock value punch line.
Much like Jelinek there is often a nervous guffaw to be found here and there
(often during a second reading) and there is scathing, scalding and biting
irony, freshly open for display. Rosa Liksom writes about the anguish of existence.
Her characters may arrive from one of the most northern parts of Finland, and
also its most scarcely populated places: Lapland; where the author herself
often hails from. The world however in which Liksom portrays is dark, though
ironic, it is dark and gloomy. It’s a world desolate, desperate, and filled to
the brim with despair. The nights never end, and when the days do break, it
simply means you’ve reawakened to the existential anguish and nightmare that is
your life. It should be surprising then to see Rosa Liksom dressed in often
contrasting clothes, with bright vibrant colours, and quick to smile, a full
toothed grin, considering her shocking subject matter. But like the Nobel Prize
winning writer Elfriede Jelinek, Liksom uses shock value to bring to attention
to the questionable circumstances in which the current society chooses to live,
and how it quickly ignores the less fortunate or the desperate and disturbed individuals,
being consumed by the schizophrenic reality around them. Her short impressionistic
vignettes of dark and disturbing images certainly give rise to the thought that
the grass is not necessarily greener on the other side; especially when its
frozen stiff. Some people may find it surprising to learn that Rosa Liksom is a
revered and acclaimed writer in Finland. Her latest novel “Hytti nro 6,” or
translated into Enlgish “Compartment No. 6,” won in two-thousand and eleven the
Finlandia Prize. It may be surprising to readers as well, that Rosa Liksom has
one book of short stories translated into English “Dark Paradise,” by Dalkey
Archive Press; and “Compartment No. 6,” is on its way for North American
readers, later this year; while Serpents Tail in the United Kingdom has already
published the novel. It can be seen the Kafkaesque prose of Liksom and her
episodic sketches are also taken an interest, not just in Finland but also
abroad. Currently I am humming and hawing about purchasing “Dark Paradise,” but
the comparison to Elfriede Jelinek is quite intriguing, and her novels written about
the Soviet Union strike me as interesting. The following is a sketch taken from
“Books from Finland,” which will hopefully give you an idea about her writing
style:
“Between
the town centre and the boarding house there was a broad marsh. The hard
February frosts coming in from the Atlantic had frozen it into a shining plain
of ice. A woman was cutting straight across it to her boarding house. She was
wearing a fur coat and high leather boots and she had an irritable look on her
face. In the sky a jet-trail snaked across the dark blue clouds. Near a clump
of bushes her pace slackened. She felt a shooting pain in her heart and
remembered something far off: midsummer, a mat of thick green grass and a pig
squealing in the butcher’s hands. She managed to localise the memory: it had
happened somewhere else, in another country, but it had happened. A sadness
crossed her face. She thrust her hands deep into her coat pockets and felt the
cold rising from the pit of her stomach to her scalp.
Behind
the bushes a man was holding his breath and hanging on a moment till the woman
was in exactly the right place. His eyes were frightened and the veins in his
temples distended. He held himself back another moment and then leapt out on
her from behind. She fell on her back, hitting her head on the ice. He was
panting hard, fitfully, with pale childish features, light wavy hair and black
leather gloves. He struck her in the face, tore her fur coat open, thrust his
hand into her blouse and tried to wrench her trousers apart. She didn’t cry out
but looked at the man discerningly. He even had a certain beauty for her. She
glanced up at the sky. The white trail of the jet had vanished: nothing but
blue clouds and the frost that made her nipples stand out.
‘Do
it somewhere warm,’ she said as he struggled despairingly with her tight
trousers. He started and withdrew his hand. He stared at her in distrust but
let go her hands, which were bleeding. ‘I’ve a little room that’s warm.’
He
eyed her swollen lips and quickly got up off her. She staggered to her feet,
buttoned her blouse and straightened her hair. She set off again for her
boarding house and the man followed her a few paces behind.
The
doorkeeper was asleep. They went into one of the cheaper rooms on the ground
floor and undressed, she expertly, he clumsily. She folded back the coverlet,
lay down on her back and looked in his eyes. There was nothing to see there but
a profound emptiness. She sighed, put her hand between her thighs, closed her
eyes and settled a little smile on her face. The man lowered himself shyly onto
her. She caressed his shoulders. He kissed her breasts and neck, tried to
penetrate her straight away but without succeeding. She closed her eyes and
swallowed. He rolled down beside her sobbing like a puppy. They slept in each
other’s arms till morning, and then she had to go to work. She took a packet of
cigarettes from the bedside table and went out. Sometime after mid-day the man
woke from his sleep with a start and went away without a look back.”
(
VII )
The
next writer, is a writer who I did not discover via “Books from Finland,” but
rather through “The Best European Fiction,” anthology series. Anita Konkka does
not appear to make an appearance on “Books from Finland.” Yet she is a writer
of esoteric subject matter; specifically dreams and their relation to reality. Her
work often though traces relationships; specifically relationships dealing with
love, though not with pity or with furrowed brows, but humorously and with
understanding compassion. Konkka herself has written novels, short stories,
essays, radio plays and one dream book. When I state that Finnish is a language
of the esoteric, mystical and the voice of dreams, it is because of Konkka. In her
novel titled “The Garden of Desires,” her characters consist of the following
(as quoted from a review posted on Konkka’s website): Paula, the building
custodian and life's pushover; Rosa, who sweeps men off their feet; Eugenia,
the neurotic virgin; Dolores, who practices witchcraft; and Leif, the poet.
With Adam, the hermit-composer, who still lives on the nearby hillside; Teresa,
who meditates perpetually under the fig trees and unemployed Milopa, a fool for
women. Her characters reflect the authors eclectic and eccentric qualities, and
are all mashed together to certainly create quite an entertaining and
enthralling read. Dolores herself strikes me as the most interesting; I imagine
her reading the stars at night, pulling tarot cars out from her sleeves for
consulting purposes, and interpreting and articulating the language of dreams
of all those who seek her services and assistances. Beyond this though, there
is not a lot to mention about Anita Konkka. Her achievements, oeuvre and
biographical information is difficult to find and discuss. She has two works
translated into English. The first being “Fools Paradise,” as published by
Dalkey Archive Press, and the second an extract from her novel “The Garden of
Desires,” titled “The Clown,” published in the anthology “The Best European
Fiction: 2010.” One can certainly hope though that Anita Konkka’s work is given
more and more opportunities abroad, in order for readers over here to become
enchanted by her discussion of love and its troublesome relationships that it
creates.
(
VIII )
Petri
Tamminen is the comic come tragic kind of writer. His work is often filled with
tragic events, juxtaposed with the comic and deft sense of the situation. The tragedy
or the phobia’s of his characters often creating very absurd situation, in
which relief is found in the neurosis of the characters. My first foray and
reading of Tamminen came from his user manual on hiding; how to escape reality
and find the comforting spaces in which one can be safe, and find security: be
it an attic or a mother’s lap. In just a few sentences, or a sketch Tamminen
creates a life, and quickly summarizes it. When I think of Petri Tamminen the Icelandic
poet and vignette writer Gyrðir Elíasson who is capable of creating and summarizing
a life in equally small spaces, and leaving most of the work unsaid, for the
reader to create and understand what has happened, and will transpire. Yet for
me, it was his book of short short prose: “Piiloutujan maa,” or English translation
“The Land of the Hider,” in which I found a manual to rid oneself of the
burdens and responsibilities of the world, for just a moment, by tucking away
out of sight for just a short amount of time; and have continued my search for
a open but private little hide away, in which I too may take refuge. The following
short prose is taken from “Books from Finland,” and is from Petri Tamminen
collection of short short prose: “The Land of the Hider,”:
“The
Library,”
A
cosy local library can be a paradise but there are hideaways to be found in a
scientific library. Awaiting the visitor are kilometres of austere shelf space,
the silence of lonely potplants and a melancholy like that at a long-jump pit
in October.
First
you should wander as if searching for something, then suddenly grab a book and
open it. The title pages waft dust into the air. The surface of the paper is a
delicate shade of yellow, the typeface is matter-of-fact, the book’s subject
the reception of Catalan women’s writing in Sweden. The book should be stroked
tenderly.
As
you continue wandering, you know that the world will endure. Humankind is
overflowing with love and trust. People do not desire evil, rather, they wish
for time and for a safe cell in which to examine matters. When you think about
it, it makes you want to huddle in the space between the wall and the shelves.
Sooner or later the gentle smell of coffee floats into the room, indicating a
well-deserved break for the hard-working library staff.
(
Part II The Second Language )
Finland
is a relatively young country, which prior to its independence, was continually
under the influence of another empire of some sort. Generally speaking it was
either the Kingdom of Sweden or the Imperial Russian Empire; Finland however
did fight back during the Winter War, against the Soviet Union, and retained
its independence and ideological autonomy from the corrosive touch of Stalinist
Communism. Finnish is the dominant language of Finland, and its second language
is Swedish, spoken by just five percent of the population. However, literal Swedish
writers in Finland have gathered as much notoriety and acclaim for their
written works, as their literal Finnish contemporaries.
( ii
I )
Tua
Forsström is a wise, existential, and vulnerable poet. She’s not a new writer
to me, but with the help of “Books from Finland,” as well as “Poetry
International,” I’ve come to grasp and have a better understanding of the poet.
She does not publish often, but when she does, Forsström often has great
expectations resting on her shoulders, to repeat previous success. Her poetry
is known to clean up awards, including the Nordic Council Prize for Literature
in nineteen ninety-eight with her collection of poems titled: “Efter att ha
tillbringat en natt bland hästar,” or English translation: “After Having Spent a
Night Among Horses.” Her poetry is readable, wise, and looks to the everyday
with a melancholic tone and keen observation. Her poetry has found a home in
other languages as well, including Dutch, Danish, German, Italian, French, and
English. Much like Sirkka Turkka, there something about Tua Forsström that
reminds me of the Polish poet and Mozart of Poetry: Wisława Szymborska. Perhaps
in the case of Forsström it is her slow pace of writing, and her continual
desire to perfect, and make her poetry transcend or vacate the ivory tower of
poetry itself. Much like Szymborska, Tua Forsström turns her keen poetic
observations to the everyday life, and writes compelling and beautiful poems in
regards to the everyday interactions in which each of us participate in.
Utilizing beautiful and original metaphors with a simplistic language though, Forsström
is close to her Swedish compatriot Tomas Transtromer, in her wise and
existential discussions. The following poem: “Staden Glittrade,” or English
Translation: “The City Was Sparkling,” show cases keen observational skills,
mixed with her melancholic tone and breathe; it is taken from her page on “Poetry
International,”
“The
City Was Sparkling,”
By Tua Forsström
“The
city was sparkling at a distance, and
I
stopped. Everything looked so beautiful,
the
street plans and the terraced gardens,
as
if water-transparent, and I saw it all
very
clearly. I thought about the great cities
with
cathedrals, and the small local museums in
the
countryside in Sweden, and the meadow-sweet with its
strong
fragrance, and I remembered how attached I had been
to
the little kitten with the spotted paws who
ran
away and how I had missed it.
I
turned around and someone was crying, I couldn’t
pay
attention to it. The city was made of transparent glass.
I
stood there. I saw my pre-eminent love.
Shimmering
of pearls. The black swans. Chalcedony.
I
tried calling the small kitten. Everything was sparkling.
I
hesitated, I knew everything, I would
not
come back.”
(
ii
II )
Susanne
Ringell first began her career as an actress on the stage; but eventually
turned away from the stage, to work behind the production of plays, by
playwriting, which eventually turned her into the direction of poetry and
prose. Since her change in career, from actress to writer, Ringell has achieved
great success. She is most well known for her short stories, which can vary
from the traditional length of a short story, to what would be considered
vignette, character sketches, to flash fiction. The spoken word is greatly
important to Ringelle as a writer; which stems from her writings for theatre,
as well as being an actress herself. Dialogue and linguistic acrobatic idioms
are often used full force in her work, which often makes for a unique reading
experience which further brings life to the work, rather than alienating readers;
especially readers from a different language in itself. Body language is often
used in her work of prose as well, often as the bridge between the physical and
external world, and the internal world within her characters. Ringelle’s work
is varied, unique and startlingly new and fresh. Her prose poem collection or
poetic novel: “Vara sten,” or English translation: “Being a Stone,” is written
in a monologue of a stone, sitting in a field commenting on the world passing
it by. Recently it has been the small sketches, vignettes and character
sketches that have seen Ringelle receive success and praise over. “Av blygsel
blev Adele fet,” or English Translation: “It was embarrassment that made Adele
fat,” is an A-Z book for adults, filled with multi-layered short stories, and character
sketches, which grasp and paints small episodic lives of the characters in
question. After testing the waters with
this collection of short prose format, Ringelle repeated it once again with the
collection: “En god Havanna. Besläktad,” or English translation: “A good
Havana. Kith and Kin,” uses the authors strange relatives as the subject
matter, and the book is connected more so than “It was embarrassment that made
Adele fat,” this allows for Ringelle to show her playfulness and in some cases
provide meditative prose poems to discuss her themes. What I find most enjoyable
about Susanne Ringell’s work is the lyrical and poetic fashion in which her
work is written, often with startling and unique metaphors to further push her
points across. The following short prose piece is from A good Havana. Kith and
Kin,” taken from “Books from Finland,”
“Take
Your Plastic Bag and Go,”
The
fact that you don’t happen to have a birch-bark basket skilfully woven by
selected Karelians to hand is not a problem. Take your plastic bag and go!
That
is the motto of second cousin Siv. The mushroom forests are there for everyone:
they are not reserved for aesthetes with special equipment, these strange
autumnal snobs who walk down the leafy catwalk in their precisely adjusted
accessories. Nor are they there exclusively for mycologists with special
insights and a special sort of knife. Don’t let yourself be cowed! A plastic
bag and fingers are all you need, eyes, legs. If chanterelles are all you can
recognise, just pick chanterelles. There’s no shame in that. The shame is to
stay sitting at home thinking I can’t do that. What if someone were to see me
and my disreputable plastic bag? What if someone were to see me and my shabby
jacket – old in the wrong sort of way – my shoes unsuitable for the forest, my
eyes unaccustomed to the forest, looking in the wrong grove, under the wrong
tree, in silly terrain. Don’t pay any attention to it, the apple – cheeked open
– air hogwash! If you are scared of snakes and ants (elks bears wolves) take
rubber boots. If you’re scared of the howling green confusion, the branches,
the thickets and the twigs, take the paths. Or if you’re just scared, take a
bottle of schnapps in your pocket. Have a packet of mushroom soup ready at home
in the cupboard, preferably Knorr rather than Pirkka, but it doesn’t really
matter. Go. Enjoy. If all you can see is yellow leaves, then all you can see is
yellow leaves. They are soggy, stickily attractive. Perhaps you’ll spot a
mourning cloak, a late butterfly. Even if you don’t know that the mourning
cloak is a mourning cloak, you can rejoice in it. Naming things isn’t
everything. Take your plastic bag and go. That is the motto of second cousin
Siv.
(
Part III The Break Through of One )
Leena
Krohn is one of Finland’s literary exports. She is a genre bending master,
while maintain a sense of what is literary. She can appeal to both lovers of
fantasy fiction, and those who loved Kafka and other serious literary writes,
who bend the rules of reality. Leena Krohn is an award winning writer. She has
walked with the Finlandia prize, and has been nominated for the World Fantasy
Award, the Horror Guild International award, as well as the Nordic Council
Prize for Fiction, all for her breakthrough novel “Tainaron: Mail from Another
City.” Krohn is a writer whose main literary themes, are morality, problematic
situations in which human beings find themselves in, the borders between
reality and illusion, and questions of rising artificial intelligence. Now,
Krohn has finally received a breakthrough in English, with the publication of a
huge collection of her work being published in one large volume. In the volume
includes novels, short stories, extracts from novels, a children’s book and
numerous essays. The book has received critical acclaim by numerous literary
journals and reviewers who are delighted by the prospect of the author reaching
a larger audience in a larger language. Since the publication of: “Leena Krohn:
Collected Fiction,” has appeared, numerous short stories and essays can be
found throughout the internet. One such story “Lucilia Illustris,” is a great
short story published on electricliterature.com, is a great starting point in
which to understand the themes, and writing style of Leena Krohn. She is a
unique writer which has broken literary bounds between genres that are
generally pushed to the side in favour of more realistic or philosophical narratives.
Krohn however uses philosophical narratives in her often strange and unwavering
fiction to delve into concepts of morality, reality, and the human predicament.
Much like the Canadian Margaret Atwood, Leena Krohn sees the boundless
possibilities of the human future, but also provides warnings, and needs to be
weary of rushing head long into the future without thinking of the current
situation, and predicament of the world, and the state of humanity; and urges
humanity to think carefully about its decisions before acting on what at first
appear to be innovative and unique ideas.
It
is with great thanks to Cheeky Frawg Press, and Jeff VanderMeer for advocating
the author to have her work more readily available in the English language, for
new readers, to take a marvel at her serious literary works, and contemplate
the destiny of humanity. It was thanks to the publication of Leena Krohn that
made me come up with this blog post. To see and give Finnish literature its
deserved and due attention in the spotlight is one that should be done more
often; hopefully with the warm and positive reception of Leena Krohn’s collected
works, will we see more Finnish writers, receive their due attention in the
English language.
(
Part IV To Conclude )
There
is no denying that Finnish is a difficult language, and that English
translations would be difficult to get the original into another language
without too much adjustments being made, which would take away from potency of
the work. However, surely newer and better attempts need to be made to make the
great writers of the Finnish language more known to the English public and
readers. It is a shame that “Books from Finland,” is
not defunct because the website, and its publication, was doing such a service
to readers in the English language with an interest in foreign languages and
its literature. Yet attempts are certainly being made, with the publication of
Leena Krohn’s collected fiction; Tua Forsström had a poem published in “The
Guardian,” newspaper, and her more recent collection: "En kväll i oktober rodde jag ut på sjön," or in its English translation: "One Evening In October I Rowed Out On The Lake". Yet what is disappointing is to hear that Raija Siekkinen
translates and lands quite softly in the English language, and yet we have not
seen one of her short story collections published in the English language yet;
then questions are raised about Eeva Tikka and the possibility of seeing her in
the English language any time soon, with her highly lyrical prose, and
biologically infused short stories. What about Susanne Ringell? Surely there
should be either a very good excuse why we have not seen her published in
English, or are we just fooling ourselves of our own parochial crimes by
refusing to even think about or look at such a wonderful writer. It would be
delightful to see her work someday published in English like “Being a Stone,”
or “Water,” or “A good Havana. Kith and Kin.” Though Sirkka Turkka has been
published into English, she still remains unknown and obscure to any potential
readers. The world of translation is certainly moving into a more positive and
productive manner, and yet we still overlook some languages and their
respective countries. Someday I hope we will see more Finnish translations,
more Estonian translations, so they too can join Hungary their linguistic cousin,
on the literary map.
Thank-you
For Reading Gentle Reader
Take
Care
And
As Always
Stay
Well Read
M.
Mary
Post Script - For those of you my dear Gentle Readers, who would like to a further look into Finnish literature, please follow the links provided below, as they will give you extracts from novels, short stories, poems and essays to read, as well as wonderful introductions and notes about the authors presented.
Books from Finland
Transcript (Finland)
As well as the following website which deals specifically with Nordic Women's Literature:
Nordic Women's Literature
