Literary Stockholm, part 1: Tomas Tranströmer

Read about the background for this blog series.

It was my intention to start with two young adult novels, Johnny My Friend and Winter Bay, but it so happens that the nearest library that has copies is closed on Fridays (and weekends), and they aren't available as e-books, which is sad, because they were once very important books; at least Johnny My Friend was probably on every children's literature course syllabus in Sweden. Not any more.

While exploring e-books, I found out that the author next on my list, Nobel Prize winner Tomas Tranströmer, had his collected works as an e-book so I downloaded it (first downloading a Swedish-compatible e-reader software), and it will thus be the first of my blog posts on literary signs in Stockholm.

I have always claimed that is it a token of hubris to try reading and understanding poetry in a foreign language. Famous Russian semiotician and literary scholar Yuri Lotman defined poetry as “extremely compressed meaning”, and while this may be partially true of prose, in poetry much of the meaning is beyond words, in a huge semiosphere. Unless you are a native speaker, layers upon layers of auditory associations will be lost, and you need a subtle understanding of the structure of the foreign language to capture the nuances. A good example is instrumental case in Russian, often used instead of similes, that may sound odd to a foreign ear. In Swedish, you can easily fuse words in most bizarre ways.

All this to say that I have always been cautious with poetry in non-native languages. I would never do research on English or Swedish poetry, and I have been reluctant to teach it. In an undergraduate course in Stockholm I was required to teach one epic, two sets of poetry, one classic and one contemporary, likewise two dramas and two novels. Contemporary poetry was a particular challenge, because with my Russian training in poetry, a pile of short, non-rhyming, non-rhythmical incoherent lines wasn't poetry. (I am now taking great risks of causing my Swedish colleagues' wrath, but I can afford it). I consulted my husband who fully shared my opinion, but said there was one exception: Tomas Tranströmer. I started reading and immediately saw the profound difference between piles of short lines and Tranströmer's Poetry, with capital P. It was “extremely compressed meaning” in which aurality was key. You could memorise it. You cannot memorise piles of short lines. You could recite it, and it was pleasurable.

Of the poetry in a collected volume in our bookshelf, one poem specifically attracted my attention, maybe because of the title: “Gogol”. For copyright reasons, I cannot quote it here, but if you are interested, there are plenty of good English translations of other poems on the web, and many printed collections. 

I put Tranströmer on my syllabus, and I chose “Gogol” to discuss in class. As a semiotician, I ignored the so-called interpretation (“what did the author want to say”) and focused on the form. I enjoyed it. I believe my students did as well. It's a luxury to spend a two-hour session on a single poem.

As we were moving to Cambridge and massively decluttering our bookshelves, we donated the first edition of Tranströmer's debut collection, 17 Poems from 1954, to someone who could appreciate it. I hope they have kept it.

How do I feel now, re-reading Tranströmer, particularly the poem “From winter 1947”, quoted on his literary sign? I have no memory of this poem; it is like reading it for the first time, but I recognise the Tranströmean flow of language, still pleasurable for the ear, or maybe more pleasurable now that I have been away from the Swedish language for such a long time. I want to read it outloud. I read it outloud to my teddy-bear. I roll the words around in my mouth, savouring every sound. Imagery flashes in my mind. I want to read the poem more than once, like you listen to your favourite piece of music. I don't care what the author wanted to say.

Of course I know much more now about what poetry does to our brain. How unusual word combinations make our right hemisphere hop, skip and jump with joy, and the left hemisphere struggle to make sense.

I read through the first hundred pages, or the three first collections, slowly and deeply. I realise that I need to borrow the printed book. Poetry on screen doesn't really work.

The next day I go to the library and borrow the printed book. Then I make myself a cup of coffee and sit on the balcony, in my lush vertical garden, reading poetry. Is there a better way of spending a Saturday morning?

Never have I felt so lonely...

In my diary for today I have a pink post-it with an arrow pointed to noon, saying "Nobel prize". At noon I rolled out of a three-hour long meeting, running to the dining hall to grab some lunch before the next meeting, back-to-back with a third meeting, and then a private and confidential conversation with a colleague, and then a student coming in for a chat, and after he was gone I saw the pink post-it. It was almost half past six, empty corridor and no one to shout to: "Yes!". Except for Mary Anne in the office next door, bless her! - I most humbly asked her to share my joy and have a sip of wine.

If Staffan had been at home, he would have met me with champagne and the best cut-glass crockery (and he would have probably phoned and emailed me fifteen times by now). But he is in the middle of the Baltic Sea, and I assume that someone on that boat listened to the radio, and the whole boat has been celebrating ever since.

Of course Miso is an incredibly intelligent cat, but I am not sure she appreciates poetry. So I will now go to bed and read Tomas Tranströmer, the Nobel Prize winner, to myself.