Seagull Books

Month: September, 2011

Enjoy the spring….

forthcoming from Seagull Books, spring 2012

Lionheart
Thorvald Steen

Translated by James Anderson

At the age of fifteen he leads an army against his father. Fourteen years later he is the Pope’s obvious choice in leading the Third Crusade and conquering Jerusalem. His main enemy is the Muslim leader Saladin. But is it true that he is God’s chosen one, like his mother says? And is Saladin really the Devil himself?

Lionheart is a concentrated novel about a man living in the shadow of his own myth, a fanatic general who wants to conquer the world’s greatest sanctum and a king who is suddenly vulnerable. Built on extensive research, the novel paints a dark and conflicting, yet credible and convincing, portrait of a man who has engrossed historians, poets, novelists and readers for centuries.

Thorvald Steen has published a wide range of novels, plays, collections of poems and short stories, children’s books and essays and achieved inter-national recognition with his creative historical novels: Don Carlos (1993), Giovanni (1995), Constantinople (1999), The Little Horse (2002) and Camel Clouds (2004). In 2006, Steen wrote the coming-of-age novel The Weight of Snow Crystals, which was followed in 2008 with the freestanding sequel The Longest Leap.

James Anderson’s literary translations from the Norwegian include Berlin Poplars by Anne B. Radge, Nutmeg by Kristin Valla and Tramp and Against Art by Tomas Espedal, the last two published recently by Seagull Books.

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While Present, they are absent.

 

We all know this scene, typified, fatal, imperturbably repeated. But is it enough to smile at it? The tourists get out of the car, take their bearings and glance around at what they can photograph, they put it into the box— it’s done. They then exclaim, with an intake of breath as they chatter among themselves, ‘How beautiful!’ The ‘beautiful’ is fixed as a label on a parcel— as a way of getting rid of it. They have to do no more than go back to their place — to return with a sense of relief. In short, they have done everything to avoid being present at the landscape; passing through it but with the best will in the world, prudently to be aside from it. Do they have any idea about it? To spare themselves the dramatic requirement of actually being there, gazing and gazing still (but is it a matter of simply ‘gazing’?). Rather of allowing themselves to grasp— to deprive — what they have fallen upon and which suddenly overwhelms them under its miracle and could hold them in suspense, interminably, to the point of vertigo, without their being able to tear themselves away.

I’ve said that they return relieved. But ‘relieved’ of what? ‘Prudence’ (faced with an ominous peril), but why? It is clear: they are relieved at having avoided confronting—confronting what appears before them, devouring their attention, and which overflowed from all parts. Photography has been the beneficial tool allowing them to use evasions with what has arisen in front of them and could not be appropriated: to hold it at a distance, ‘in check’. Or designating it more precisely: with the insupportable of what cannot be possessed—inconsumable as this corner of the landscape was. I will even say of any part at all of a landscape. There is no point in going to Venice to photograph (or there is no point in going a long way in order to run into the ‘miracle’). As soon as there is a field, a tree, an end of the road, a roof… Photography has served as a screen, conveniently, sheltering us from the necessity of dealing with what the world suddenly displays—which exhibits the common and the banal, to such an extent that it has been seen before, and yet at the same time is unheard of. Since one is stopped there, one ceases to slip, and forever still sees. Who could effectively roar out: ‘This last light, this evening, when we leave the forest! …’ Without stopping in the literal sense, in other words the giving away all at once of the internal ramparts— our vital defences nonetheless so well hardened—under its irruption: the ‘beautiful’, posited above, already begins to circumscribe and reduce. It will certainly be said that this sort of photography is taken to ‘preserve’ (to remember: it will be rediscovered later, etc.). And even: has he not needed to be attentive, vigilant, in order to choose the best viewing angle and to frame it effectively? But take care, to want to conserve is already to protect oneself in the face of what suddenly attacks, like this corner of the landscape, and which, if I stop just a little before, instead of beginning in this way to arrange it, so soon to set off, affects me to an intolerable extent. And in the same way: to be attentive is to choose well, to frame well, first of all to divert oneself from what the slightest corner of the landscape possesses in itself of the infinite, thus of what is impossible to contain or select. To take a photograph is to place oneself in safety, to interpose: to exempt oneself from what, as in an indentation, is immediately glimpsed as irreducible and finally intrudes there, bare, in sight, without restraint. Faced with what one photographs in order to flee, in order to flee, in other words to avoid ‘being there’—da sien—once, this time, which is unique, in front of this tree, in front of this field. Or rather ‘of the tree’, ‘of the field’. One will then photograph in order to restore to use de l’ usage, again get into the expected, the conventional, and boucher de son mieux to which the panic of encounter, of upset, could point: in order no longer to be exposed to this peril, in fact, that of being close, facing, ‘pre(s)ent’, here and now (or, when one takes a photograph of faces, the effect then escapes us). Photography (the ‘photo memory’) is the instrument prepared for this avoidance. Except to produce a work of art, but it then aims at the inverse, in what is non-consumable ‘art’, this taking of photos serves as a screen to deaden shock and disorder— to reduce the intrusion of an outside, the breaking open of a present. In order to re-establish the continuous slipping so that internal and external  (the ‘self’/the ‘world’) remain anew, each on their side, wisely, in their respective aloofness, with a minimum of watertightness, without going to further trouble.

 

françois jullien. an extract from enquiry on true life. a work in progress.

translated by krzysztof fijalkowski and michael richardson.

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