Sunday, 31 July 2011
Gazeta.ru: Oslo/Belarus connection
According to Gazeta.ru, Belarusian oppositionists claim that Anders Behring Breivik has connections with Belarus which went far beyond his ostensible interest in Viking graves and the Chernobyl nuclear disaster (he visited the country as a tourist in 2005). Party of Patriots leader Mikhail Reshetnikov is quoted as saying that that earlier in 2011 Breivik may have received paramilitary training from former members of the Belarusian KGB. See also this link.
Saturday, 30 July 2011
Seven Dresses for Visibility
by Pia Tafdrup
I am sewing a dress that can be worn
proudly by one who is born with
an expectant spark in the heart’s vessels,
it will perfectly fit large and small,
is spun strong by the bow of the rain
it can be enjoyed a whole life long,
if the cloth is looked after well.
I am sewing a dress that can be worn
silently by new victims of fear,
it can fit large and small,
does not hide vulnerability
as droves of birds are hunted
out of the tree's dense crown,
the fabric flutters in the wind.
I am sewing a dress that can be worn
lightly by new victims of hate,
it is coloured red by blood
and has thunder-black borders,
it can fit large and small,
those who least of all will think
that one should change before the night.
I am sewing a dress that can be worn
by the victims of a cold cynicism
it can fit large and small,
its crazy fabric is made
of fire no downpour will quench,
it will be a reminder that the earth
may open up at any time at all.
I am sewing a dress that can cover
dried blood on the victims of death,
it can hide large and small,
it is shaped by the deep furrows
of tears across the cheek,
the cloth matches the walls of the dark,
the peace in each grave on the planet.
I am sewing a dress that can be worn
in a misty haze of sorrow’s
victims, designed for relatives
and friends of the deceased,
it can fit large and small,
anger’s first light is visible
between lead-grey threads of pain.
I am sewing the dress that can be worn
securely by one who knows hope,
woven in are the laughter of friends,
quiet tears of joy, the desire
to wake up in spite
of life the disaster took
– it reflects the rays of the sun.
SYV KJOLER FOR SYNLIGHEDEN
Jeg syr en kjole, som kan bæres
stolt af den, der fødes med
forventningsgnist i hjertets kar,
den passer fuldendt stor og lille,
spindes stærkt af regnens bue,
den kan nydes hele livet,
hvis der værnes godt om klædet.
Jeg syr en kjole, som kan bæres
tyst af frygtens nye offer,
den kan passe stor og lille,
skjuler ikke sårbarhed,
som flokkevis af fugle jages
ud af træets tætte krone,
flagrer stoffet op i vinden.
Jeg syr en kjole, som kan bæres
let af hadets nye offer,
den er farvet rød af blodet
og har tordensorte kanter,
den kan passe stor og lille,
den, der mindst af alt vil tro,
der skulle skiftes tøj før natten.
Jeg syr en kjole, som kan bæres
af en kold kynismes offer,
den kan passe stor og lille,
kjolens vanvidsstof er gjort
af ild, som ingen skylregn slukker,
den skal minde om, at jorden
når som helst kan åbne sig.
Jeg syr en kjole, som kan dække
størknet blod på dødens offer,
den kan skjule stor og lille,
den er formet efter grådens
dybe furer over kinden,
klædet matcher mørkets vægge,
freden i hver grav på kloden.
Jeg syr en kjole, som kan bæres
i en tågedøs af sorgens
offer, viet til en slægtning
og til venner af den døde,
den kan passe stor og lille,
vredens første lys er synligt
mellem blygrå smertetråde.
Jeg syr på kjolen, som kan bæres
trygt af den, der kender håbet,
vævet ind er venners latter,
stille glædestårer, lysten
til at vågne op på trods
af liv, som katastrofen tog
– den reflekterer solens stråler.
translated from Danish by David McDuff
I am sewing a dress that can be worn
proudly by one who is born with
an expectant spark in the heart’s vessels,
it will perfectly fit large and small,
is spun strong by the bow of the rain
it can be enjoyed a whole life long,
if the cloth is looked after well.
I am sewing a dress that can be worn
silently by new victims of fear,
it can fit large and small,
does not hide vulnerability
as droves of birds are hunted
out of the tree's dense crown,
the fabric flutters in the wind.
I am sewing a dress that can be worn
lightly by new victims of hate,
it is coloured red by blood
and has thunder-black borders,
it can fit large and small,
those who least of all will think
that one should change before the night.
I am sewing a dress that can be worn
by the victims of a cold cynicism
it can fit large and small,
its crazy fabric is made
of fire no downpour will quench,
it will be a reminder that the earth
may open up at any time at all.
I am sewing a dress that can cover
dried blood on the victims of death,
it can hide large and small,
it is shaped by the deep furrows
of tears across the cheek,
the cloth matches the walls of the dark,
the peace in each grave on the planet.
I am sewing a dress that can be worn
in a misty haze of sorrow’s
victims, designed for relatives
and friends of the deceased,
it can fit large and small,
anger’s first light is visible
between lead-grey threads of pain.
I am sewing the dress that can be worn
securely by one who knows hope,
woven in are the laughter of friends,
quiet tears of joy, the desire
to wake up in spite
of life the disaster took
– it reflects the rays of the sun.
SYV KJOLER FOR SYNLIGHEDEN
Jeg syr en kjole, som kan bæres
stolt af den, der fødes med
forventningsgnist i hjertets kar,
den passer fuldendt stor og lille,
spindes stærkt af regnens bue,
den kan nydes hele livet,
hvis der værnes godt om klædet.
Jeg syr en kjole, som kan bæres
tyst af frygtens nye offer,
den kan passe stor og lille,
skjuler ikke sårbarhed,
som flokkevis af fugle jages
ud af træets tætte krone,
flagrer stoffet op i vinden.
Jeg syr en kjole, som kan bæres
let af hadets nye offer,
den er farvet rød af blodet
og har tordensorte kanter,
den kan passe stor og lille,
den, der mindst af alt vil tro,
der skulle skiftes tøj før natten.
Jeg syr en kjole, som kan bæres
af en kold kynismes offer,
den kan passe stor og lille,
kjolens vanvidsstof er gjort
af ild, som ingen skylregn slukker,
den skal minde om, at jorden
når som helst kan åbne sig.
Jeg syr en kjole, som kan dække
størknet blod på dødens offer,
den kan skjule stor og lille,
den er formet efter grådens
dybe furer over kinden,
klædet matcher mørkets vægge,
freden i hver grav på kloden.
Jeg syr en kjole, som kan bæres
i en tågedøs af sorgens
offer, viet til en slægtning
og til venner af den døde,
den kan passe stor og lille,
vredens første lys er synligt
mellem blygrå smertetråde.
Jeg syr på kjolen, som kan bæres
trygt af den, der kender håbet,
vævet ind er venners latter,
stille glædestårer, lysten
til at vågne op på trods
af liv, som katastrofen tog
– den reflekterer solens stråler.
translated from Danish by David McDuff
Utøya poem
Pia Tafdrup has written a poem about the Utøya shootings - my translation can be read at World Literature Today.
The Danish text of the poem is on this page of Politiken's e-edition (left-hand page, right-hand column, click to enlarge).
A Poem for Norway at the London Times (paywall).
The Danish text of the poem is on this page of Politiken's e-edition (left-hand page, right-hand column, click to enlarge).
A Poem for Norway at the London Times (paywall).
Friday, 29 July 2011
From "Landscape"
by Lassi Nummi (1949)
A line. From the left, slowly rising, forming small curlicues, levelling off, rising again until it folds and falls gently arching into invisibility.
Below the line darkness, restlessly stirring, swelling
Another line, vertical and motionless: a blade of grass.
The brightness is not uniform. There are dark patches in it. A slight gleam, a thin, meagre shimmer covers everything. The clouds. The sky.
The forest’s edge, the forest. The darkness splits, disperses, decreases . . earth, a breath of wind, bending grasses. Approaching, approaching: the vertical line, the grass-blade. The wind reaches it.
It moves.
In front of me is a strange, many-branched object. It rises from the surface thick and black for a while, then branches out. In three parts it continues its journey to the heights, letting a narrow branch diverge to the side now and then; slowly becomes thinner and eventually breaks into thousands of thin black segments; and finally bursts into bright bundles of fresh and delicate round, greenish plates.
Between all this there is labyrinthine room in plenty for the light and semi-twilight. A grey shimmer slowly oozes through the branches and penetrates everywhere; it is reflected faintly from the greenness, revolves around the black tissue, falls quivering along the ever thicker branches, momentarily brightening, gushes simultaneously from three directions onto the large stem; floods, growing dimmer again, slowly down it.
At intervals also a light mist, pressing deep into the labyrinth, turns the greenness soft; soft and deep.
A breath of wind: motionless the deep green cluster awaits its arrival. Unexpectedly it encounters the first one – a trace – now another flickers, a fifth, dozens .. a fluttering passes through everything, decreases slightly, quickens: now the thinnest black tissue joins in, the movement passes downwards, more violently: a sudden shiver arrives startlingly as far as the vicinity of the tri-forked branch.
It becomes quiet. The movement decreases in the middle, continues for a while further out, for a moment longer at the top, grows fainter. It is all over, all the delicate green plates hang motionless, gather into one . . parts disappear. In front of me is a single, heavy green lump from whose centre a black streak runs down to the ground.
A tree, its leaves and trunk.
*
The trees rise up out of emptiness.
Grass grows all around. Groups of trees spring up from it, the land’s surface undulates, rising and falling. Further away the forest’s dark green stripe surrounds the landscape.
I am walking in a foreign land. I walk slowly; the dark green of the trees glides slowly past. The trees stand out in sharp lines from the surface of the grey sky. They are completely motionless. The grass and the earth are motionless. Everywhere there are hard, unmoving surfaces, I cannot see anything else. Trees, land, forest. Sky.
It is strange to walk like this, in the emptiness, in the midst of surfaces. One cannot know what is concealed behind them. I stop. In front of me is a group of trees . . an uneven dark green wall that is supported by cold, black struts. I want to see behind it, I go round it, but on every side it is the same.
Everything is flat, I cannot see anything behind. I cannot see anything inside. The sharp outlines intersect painfully, the flat, grey plate covers everything, it is oppressively low. In the midst of emptiness . . one cannot touch anything. I close my eyes, I walk.
A smooth, green surface is in front of me, the grass. On it there is a grey gleam, nothing breaks its membrane.
Movement.
Something moves . . a blade of grass, I bend down to see it better. Next to it I see another blade, a third and yet another. I get down on my knees to see them better.
The grassy area is not flat. The ground is not flat. Next to the grassy area there are blades of grass and also leaves and various small plants and stones and soil and some flower, ants run about in between, and other small creatures, a leaf.
A leaf.
It must have fallen from a tree.
I lift my gaze; in front of me is a green wall, a tree. From it one leaf stands out, another, dozens . . it does not move and yet it seems to be pushing them in every direction, it is not a wall, from it all kinds of small objects protrude on every side, and in between, on the inside only an empty space remains . . I see inside it! I see behind it.
Nothing moves and yet everything is in quiet motion, on every side all kinds of small objects protrude, grass, forest, sky, everything quivers. I try to see all the grass-blades . . there are too many of them and more and more of them and ants are running about between them. And one cannot see all the tree’s leaves, there are painfully too many of them, and behind the tree there are other blades of grass and other ants are running about between them, and they cannot be seen either, and in the new tree there are too many leaves and behind it more grass . . . trees and grasslands so many that one cannot see or count them, in between soil and moss in countless quantities . . and somewhere at last a road where the sun shines, the sand-grains glitter and they are in front and behind, side by side and one on top of one another more and more, and no one can count their number.
For a while I do not raise my head; I have covered my face with my hands.
Maisema (1949)
translated from Finnish by David McDuff
A line. From the left, slowly rising, forming small curlicues, levelling off, rising again until it folds and falls gently arching into invisibility.
Below the line darkness, restlessly stirring, swelling
Another line, vertical and motionless: a blade of grass.
The brightness is not uniform. There are dark patches in it. A slight gleam, a thin, meagre shimmer covers everything. The clouds. The sky.
The forest’s edge, the forest. The darkness splits, disperses, decreases . . earth, a breath of wind, bending grasses. Approaching, approaching: the vertical line, the grass-blade. The wind reaches it.
It moves.
In front of me is a strange, many-branched object. It rises from the surface thick and black for a while, then branches out. In three parts it continues its journey to the heights, letting a narrow branch diverge to the side now and then; slowly becomes thinner and eventually breaks into thousands of thin black segments; and finally bursts into bright bundles of fresh and delicate round, greenish plates.
Between all this there is labyrinthine room in plenty for the light and semi-twilight. A grey shimmer slowly oozes through the branches and penetrates everywhere; it is reflected faintly from the greenness, revolves around the black tissue, falls quivering along the ever thicker branches, momentarily brightening, gushes simultaneously from three directions onto the large stem; floods, growing dimmer again, slowly down it.
At intervals also a light mist, pressing deep into the labyrinth, turns the greenness soft; soft and deep.
A breath of wind: motionless the deep green cluster awaits its arrival. Unexpectedly it encounters the first one – a trace – now another flickers, a fifth, dozens .. a fluttering passes through everything, decreases slightly, quickens: now the thinnest black tissue joins in, the movement passes downwards, more violently: a sudden shiver arrives startlingly as far as the vicinity of the tri-forked branch.
It becomes quiet. The movement decreases in the middle, continues for a while further out, for a moment longer at the top, grows fainter. It is all over, all the delicate green plates hang motionless, gather into one . . parts disappear. In front of me is a single, heavy green lump from whose centre a black streak runs down to the ground.
A tree, its leaves and trunk.
*
The trees rise up out of emptiness.
Grass grows all around. Groups of trees spring up from it, the land’s surface undulates, rising and falling. Further away the forest’s dark green stripe surrounds the landscape.
I am walking in a foreign land. I walk slowly; the dark green of the trees glides slowly past. The trees stand out in sharp lines from the surface of the grey sky. They are completely motionless. The grass and the earth are motionless. Everywhere there are hard, unmoving surfaces, I cannot see anything else. Trees, land, forest. Sky.
It is strange to walk like this, in the emptiness, in the midst of surfaces. One cannot know what is concealed behind them. I stop. In front of me is a group of trees . . an uneven dark green wall that is supported by cold, black struts. I want to see behind it, I go round it, but on every side it is the same.
Everything is flat, I cannot see anything behind. I cannot see anything inside. The sharp outlines intersect painfully, the flat, grey plate covers everything, it is oppressively low. In the midst of emptiness . . one cannot touch anything. I close my eyes, I walk.
A smooth, green surface is in front of me, the grass. On it there is a grey gleam, nothing breaks its membrane.
Movement.
Something moves . . a blade of grass, I bend down to see it better. Next to it I see another blade, a third and yet another. I get down on my knees to see them better.
The grassy area is not flat. The ground is not flat. Next to the grassy area there are blades of grass and also leaves and various small plants and stones and soil and some flower, ants run about in between, and other small creatures, a leaf.
A leaf.
It must have fallen from a tree.
I lift my gaze; in front of me is a green wall, a tree. From it one leaf stands out, another, dozens . . it does not move and yet it seems to be pushing them in every direction, it is not a wall, from it all kinds of small objects protrude on every side, and in between, on the inside only an empty space remains . . I see inside it! I see behind it.
Nothing moves and yet everything is in quiet motion, on every side all kinds of small objects protrude, grass, forest, sky, everything quivers. I try to see all the grass-blades . . there are too many of them and more and more of them and ants are running about between them. And one cannot see all the tree’s leaves, there are painfully too many of them, and behind the tree there are other blades of grass and other ants are running about between them, and they cannot be seen either, and in the new tree there are too many leaves and behind it more grass . . . trees and grasslands so many that one cannot see or count them, in between soil and moss in countless quantities . . and somewhere at last a road where the sun shines, the sand-grains glitter and they are in front and behind, side by side and one on top of one another more and more, and no one can count their number.
For a while I do not raise my head; I have covered my face with my hands.
Maisema (1949)
translated from Finnish by David McDuff
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Breivik as author
From IslamRF.ru:
http://islamrf.ru/news/politics/analytics/17008/
Всякий, кто когда-нибудь хоть немного занимался тем, что называют наукой, например, писал (а не скачивал) добротный реферат, понимает – создать подобное без определённой подготовки или помощи «компетентных друзей» невозможно. Есть основания сделать более радикальное предположение – манифест Брейвика писал не он.
Скорее всего, данную книгу, несущую лёгкий «закос» под любительство, а на самом деле сбитую весьма профессионально, делал хорошо подготовленный коллектив. Возможно, Брейвик её читал, возможно, какие-то фрагменты вставлял сам – но слишком многое сказано не им.
Но от его имени.
От имени массового убийцы и террориста, не дрожащей рукой расстрелявшего десятки ни в чём не повинных молодых людей, от имени психопата-нациста, ещё и похваляющегося своим поступком.
http://islamrf.ru/news/politics/analytics/17008/
Monday, 25 July 2011
Oslo bomb blast and Utøya shooting - 3
Breivik has chosen Geir Lippestad, a member of Norway's Labour Party, as his defence lawyer.
...han har snakket en del om det han opplever som motiv. Det jeg generelt kan si, er at han ønsket å ramme samfunnet, samfunnsoppbyggingen og den måten vårt samfunn styres på, sier Lippestad. (Aftenposten)
Manfred Gerstenfeld on Norway carnage and Israel (YnetNews)
The politisk.no report on Norwegian Foreign Minister Jonas Gahr Støre's visit to the AUF summer camp, dated July 21.
Following Breivik's claims of links with Britain's EDL, there are also reports from St Petersburg that several Internet groups in the Russian Federation have been closed down after they published large volumes of comments in support of the killer.
The court hearing will take place behind closed doors, with all media banned.
Min venn Anders, by Peter Svaar.
...han har snakket en del om det han opplever som motiv. Det jeg generelt kan si, er at han ønsket å ramme samfunnet, samfunnsoppbyggingen og den måten vårt samfunn styres på, sier Lippestad. (Aftenposten)
Manfred Gerstenfeld on Norway carnage and Israel (YnetNews)
The politisk.no report on Norwegian Foreign Minister Jonas Gahr Støre's visit to the AUF summer camp, dated July 21.
Following Breivik's claims of links with Britain's EDL, there are also reports from St Petersburg that several Internet groups in the Russian Federation have been closed down after they published large volumes of comments in support of the killer.
The court hearing will take place behind closed doors, with all media banned.
Min venn Anders, by Peter Svaar.
Saturday, 23 July 2011
Oslo bomb blast and Utøya shooting - 2
At a Norway police press conference on July 23 national police chief Sveinung Sponheim said that Breivik has made Internet postings which "suggest that he has some political traits directed toward the right, and anti-Muslim views, but if that was a motivation for the actual act remains to be seen". During the conference the term "Christian fundamentalist" was used.
If the Oslo blast was caused by a vehicle bomb, it could not have been assembled in a private apartment, but must have been prepared elsewhere, either in the city or outside it. Vehicle bombs are widely used for terrorism not only in Pakistan, Afghanistan and the Middle East but also in the North Caucasus, which leads one to speculate that as there are several thousand Chechen and Ingush radicals living in Norway, there can be no shortage of experts in the field, and the individuals or group who organized the July 22 bombing must have got their expertise from somewhere. However, such speculation is probably misguided, at least at this stage.
Document.no has posted a list of all the comments Breivik has left on its site. There is a Google-ish English translation here.
A second shooter may still be at large.
The death toll continues to mount.
Berlingske reports that Breivik gave himself up voluntarily to Norwegian police.
If the Oslo blast was caused by a vehicle bomb, it could not have been assembled in a private apartment, but must have been prepared elsewhere, either in the city or outside it. Vehicle bombs are widely used for terrorism not only in Pakistan, Afghanistan and the Middle East but also in the North Caucasus, which leads one to speculate that as there are several thousand Chechen and Ingush radicals living in Norway, there can be no shortage of experts in the field, and the individuals or group who organized the July 22 bombing must have got their expertise from somewhere. However, such speculation is probably misguided, at least at this stage.
Document.no has posted a list of all the comments Breivik has left on its site. There is a Google-ish English translation here.
A second shooter may still be at large.
The death toll continues to mount.
Berlingske reports that Breivik gave himself up voluntarily to Norwegian police.
Oslo bomb blast and Utøya shooting
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-14252515
There has been a mass shooting at the AUF (Norwegian Labour Party youth section) summer camp on the lake island of Utøya near Oslo. A man dressed as a policeman who arrived by boat was reported to be firing an automatic weapon. A large force of anti-terror police was said to be on the way to the site of the shooting. Sky News reports that ambulances were unable to reach the island, as shooting was still going on. There are some 560 teenagers participating in the camp. Some tried to escape the island by swimming in the very cold waters of the lake. Norwegian Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg was due to speak at an event on the island either today or tomorrow.Latest reports speak of panic situation and many shot and killed. Sky reports that the shooter has now been apprehended, and interrogation will follow.
There are echoes of Beslan, Mumbai, and London. But the motive for the attacks remains unclear.
Norwegian Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg has said that "Norway finds itself in a very serious situation." A crisis meeting of ministers has been called. Is it a 9/11 moment?
There are unconfirmed reports (NRK, AP) of over 20 bodies on Utøya.
Some reports indicate that the Utøya gunman is a male of Nordic appearance - but the significance of this is unclear. It will be recalled, for example, that Alexander Tikhomirov (Said Buryatsky), killed in 2010, was an ethnic Russian convert to Islam who recruited and trained terrorists in Russia's North Caucasus.
The official Utøya death toll has now risen to at least 80, and the events appear to constitute a large-scale massacre.
The man being held by Norwegian police on suspicion of carrying out the shootings is 32-year-old Anders Behring Breivik, a member of an extreme right-wing organization, Aftenposten reports. English-language link here.
There has been a mass shooting at the AUF (Norwegian Labour Party youth section) summer camp on the lake island of Utøya near Oslo. A man dressed as a policeman who arrived by boat was reported to be firing an automatic weapon. A large force of anti-terror police was said to be on the way to the site of the shooting. Sky News reports that ambulances were unable to reach the island, as shooting was still going on. There are some 560 teenagers participating in the camp. Some tried to escape the island by swimming in the very cold waters of the lake. Norwegian Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg was due to speak at an event on the island either today or tomorrow.Latest reports speak of panic situation and many shot and killed. Sky reports that the shooter has now been apprehended, and interrogation will follow.
There are echoes of Beslan, Mumbai, and London. But the motive for the attacks remains unclear.
Norwegian Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg has said that "Norway finds itself in a very serious situation." A crisis meeting of ministers has been called. Is it a 9/11 moment?
There are unconfirmed reports (NRK, AP) of over 20 bodies on Utøya.
Some reports indicate that the Utøya gunman is a male of Nordic appearance - but the significance of this is unclear. It will be recalled, for example, that Alexander Tikhomirov (Said Buryatsky), killed in 2010, was an ethnic Russian convert to Islam who recruited and trained terrorists in Russia's North Caucasus.
The official Utøya death toll has now risen to at least 80, and the events appear to constitute a large-scale massacre.
The man being held by Norwegian police on suspicion of carrying out the shootings is 32-year-old Anders Behring Breivik, a member of an extreme right-wing organization, Aftenposten reports. English-language link here.
A representative of Norway's Police Security Service (PST) has said that a violent action of this kind by right-wing extremists has long been feared, noting that there are links between Norwegian extremists and groups elsewhere in Europe, including Russia.
In the comments at Harry's Place, Dorthea has posted a quick translation of an article from Verdens Gang:
A childhood friend of Breivik tells VG Nett that Breivik became right-wing in his late 20’s, and posted a series of controversial opinions on Facebook. His profile was deactivated after a while.
In the comments at Harry's Place, Dorthea has posted a quick translation of an article from Verdens Gang:
A childhood friend of Breivik tells VG Nett that Breivik became right-wing in his late 20’s, and posted a series of controversial opinions on Facebook. His profile was deactivated after a while.
Anders Behring Breivik marks himself in online debate forums as well read, and one with strong opinions about Norwegian politics. He promotes a very conservative opinions, which he himself claims to be nationalistic. He also expresses himself strongly opposed to multiculturalism – that cultural differences can live together in a community.
Breivik once had many posts on the site Document.no, an Islam-critical site that publishes news and commentary.
In one of the posts he states that politics today no longer revolves around socialism against capitalism, but that the fight is between nationalism and internationalism. He expressed clear support for the nationalist mindset.
Anders Breivik Behring has also commented on the Swedish news articles, where he makes it clear that he believes the media have failed by not being “enough” Islam-critical.
Six days ago he released his first and only message on the social networking site Twitter, where he laid out a famous quote by British philosopher John Stuart Mill. “One person with a belief is equal to the force of 100 000 WHO garden only interests.”
On Facebook Breivik stated that he is the director of his own company Geofarm. Breivik established firm GeoFarm in 2009, and stated that the company should engage in the cultivation of vegetables, roots and tubers. The company in this industry you can get access to large amounts of fertilizer. He claims he has an education in finance and religion, but does not disclose what universities he should have studied at. The only school he gives are Oslo Handel – listed as his high school.
The 32-year-old is among other things registered as a member of Oslo gun club and the Masonic Lodge. Among other interests he expresses his admiration for Winston Churcill, classical music and Max Manus (Norwegian movie about WW2).
The 32-year-old man has been active in video games and has been involved in the online game World of Warcraft. In connection with this game, he posted a picture of a gun.
Breivik once had many posts on the site Document.no, an Islam-critical site that publishes news and commentary.
In one of the posts he states that politics today no longer revolves around socialism against capitalism, but that the fight is between nationalism and internationalism. He expressed clear support for the nationalist mindset.
Anders Breivik Behring has also commented on the Swedish news articles, where he makes it clear that he believes the media have failed by not being “enough” Islam-critical.
Six days ago he released his first and only message on the social networking site Twitter, where he laid out a famous quote by British philosopher John Stuart Mill. “One person with a belief is equal to the force of 100 000 WHO garden only interests.”
On Facebook Breivik stated that he is the director of his own company Geofarm. Breivik established firm GeoFarm in 2009, and stated that the company should engage in the cultivation of vegetables, roots and tubers. The company in this industry you can get access to large amounts of fertilizer. He claims he has an education in finance and religion, but does not disclose what universities he should have studied at. The only school he gives are Oslo Handel – listed as his high school.
The 32-year-old is among other things registered as a member of Oslo gun club and the Masonic Lodge. Among other interests he expresses his admiration for Winston Churcill, classical music and Max Manus (Norwegian movie about WW2).
The 32-year-old man has been active in video games and has been involved in the online game World of Warcraft. In connection with this game, he posted a picture of a gun.
Monday, 18 July 2011
Poems from The Pelican
by Tommi Parkko
"So long as a man rides his hobby-horse peaceably and quietly along the King’s highway, and neither compels you or me to get up behind him,—pray, Sir, what have either you or I to do with it?"
Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy
i
It was that time, the bear was lowered from the mouth of heaven,
a yellow helmet, on it a red cross and a bird,
the ropes passed from the groin to the shoulders
from the tops of the trees deep into the stomach.
You were by the side of the highway, the land opened up before you
its shipwrecked tale:
asphalt and grass, a stone's helplessness, a ploughed acidic field.
The stone was newborn, and the fontanel,
the voice bounced on the bones of the skull, the mill ground
salt, in the grains of the wheat an abyss, an abyss
for disputes and thundering.
On the road that led to the edge the elks and the birds
confronted one another,
you saw it all and it was good,
stone and flesh intertwined like milk round coffee,
you can isolate the limit! Your axis round everything,
the stars, the child's skin smelt fresh.
ii
You have not been given your voice, you
and three others.
You were too late, the alarm clock stopped, the train left,
you read the book by chance, the round form,
the sounds had already been assigned.
Not good enough for you the noise,
the whir of the cypress or the swishings of the whale.
You have not received a voice
from anyone, no rattle
of tongue or creature
though you asked and asked.
Your friends took the boom of the thunder,
the tinkling of the waterfall and the cry of the pelican.
you listen your ears
hopeful, starry bright,
there is nothing yet:
do not turn your back on a world
that does not give you your voice.
iii
The police band accompanies two thousand
dachshunds into town, coffee pots drift on the tide
noses outstretched.
My illness is not a medicine, but one must
dive into the river all the same.
I wait for the darkness that on my eyelids is like a paper margin,
the air’s victory over the land,
a rainbow sucks the water of the river
to rain it down elsewhere. The word is mist
and pouring rain in the library.
I wear out the wooden walls and the newspapers with my open eyes.
It is all from the sky, the frogs,
the slow steps of the ice to the airplane and
the programming that is called maturity.
[From Pelikaani, Savukeidas, Turku, 2011]
Translated from Finnish by David McDuff
"So long as a man rides his hobby-horse peaceably and quietly along the King’s highway, and neither compels you or me to get up behind him,—pray, Sir, what have either you or I to do with it?"
Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy
i
It was that time, the bear was lowered from the mouth of heaven,
a yellow helmet, on it a red cross and a bird,
the ropes passed from the groin to the shoulders
from the tops of the trees deep into the stomach.
You were by the side of the highway, the land opened up before you
its shipwrecked tale:
asphalt and grass, a stone's helplessness, a ploughed acidic field.
The stone was newborn, and the fontanel,
the voice bounced on the bones of the skull, the mill ground
salt, in the grains of the wheat an abyss, an abyss
for disputes and thundering.
On the road that led to the edge the elks and the birds
confronted one another,
you saw it all and it was good,
stone and flesh intertwined like milk round coffee,
you can isolate the limit! Your axis round everything,
the stars, the child's skin smelt fresh.
ii
You have not been given your voice, you
and three others.
You were too late, the alarm clock stopped, the train left,
you read the book by chance, the round form,
the sounds had already been assigned.
Not good enough for you the noise,
the whir of the cypress or the swishings of the whale.
You have not received a voice
from anyone, no rattle
of tongue or creature
though you asked and asked.
Your friends took the boom of the thunder,
the tinkling of the waterfall and the cry of the pelican.
you listen your ears
hopeful, starry bright,
there is nothing yet:
do not turn your back on a world
that does not give you your voice.
iii
The police band accompanies two thousand
dachshunds into town, coffee pots drift on the tide
noses outstretched.
My illness is not a medicine, but one must
dive into the river all the same.
I wait for the darkness that on my eyelids is like a paper margin,
the air’s victory over the land,
a rainbow sucks the water of the river
to rain it down elsewhere. The word is mist
and pouring rain in the library.
I wear out the wooden walls and the newspapers with my open eyes.
It is all from the sky, the frogs,
the slow steps of the ice to the airplane and
the programming that is called maturity.
[From Pelikaani, Savukeidas, Turku, 2011]
Translated from Finnish by David McDuff
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
Picnic, a Prelude
by Pia Tafdrup
translated from Danish by David McDuff
If my grandmother had been an architect,
which as a young bricklayer’s apprentice she
aspired to be,
until my grandfather got other plans
for her future
within the four walls of the home,
Copenhagen would have
been a different city today
and "architect" more
than a capsized word in her mouth.
If my mother had been employed
as a receptionist at the desk
of Hotel Trouville in Hornbæk
guests from all over the world would have
received the best service,
which did not happen,
because my father found a better solution
a brand new baby
which would be cared for
within the four wings of the farm.
- "Is home not good enough for you, then?”
Letters from my mother reached me
in a straight bird-line –
No matter how many wing-beats, I was gone.
Like that
I felt at home
wherever I arrived.
White envelopes with her
unmistakable, circular handwriting
scrutinized and deciphered in many countries
letters about my brother, my father and sister
and all her cats
"Your father has sown the field to the east
and I have been to the hairdresser’s."
I slit the letters open
and out poured out the sun.
– “Take me with you,”
they said between the lines
to me who was involved in seeing
how others lived,
seeing icebergs in Greenland, sniffing around
in Hanoi’s little shops, sending my tentacles out
in Bogotá, confronting myself
with Australia's wildlife
but quite often encountering
beggars, robbers, swindlers and those
who were worse, men who asked:
– “Do you want to get married?”
I said no, because I was married,
at least on paper.
– “What are you doing here, then?
Go home and look after your children!”
How could people in other cultures
understand my desire to travel?
What was I doing in the West Bank?
Or why was it important
to cross Chicago's no-man's land?
Who ever had a grandmother
who taught one to travel
even though one was running a fever?
A picnic was cancelled because I was ill
instead, with my sister and me
she wandered up and down
the moss-green carpet in the passage, told us
of all the gnarled trees in the woods,
of the mushrooms we were going to pick
until at last we
flopped down with the filled basket
and held a picnic on the grass. translated from Danish by David McDuff
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Biophilia
The seventh full-length album from Icelandic singer Björk is called Biophilia. According to the singer herself, the album springs from a wish to explore the structures of nature and music, to find out where they meet, and then to write the songs about it. One track, Crystalline, was released on June 27, and the whole album is expected to appear on September 26. The album has been recorded as a series of IPad apps as well as a standard CD, and also involves the use of At the present time it's not clear who wrote the lyrics of some of the songs, though Icelandic poet Sjón (Sigurjón B. Sigurðsson) is the author of 'Solstice', featured earlier in this blog.
Björk is currently introducing songs from the album at the Manchester International Festival, and the live performances include the use of images and back projections. According to the Wiki,
Björk is currently introducing songs from the album at the Manchester International Festival, and the live performances include the use of images and back projections. According to the Wiki,
Björk will be performing "Biophilia" tracks and music from her back catalogue with a small group of musical collaborators, including an Icelandic female choir. The show will feature a range of specially conceived and crafted instruments, among them a bespoke pipe organ that accepts digital information and a pendulum that harnesses the earth’s gravitational pull to create musical patterns. Stephen Malinowski designed some animations on the show, creating videos that changed and fitted according to the music produced by the iPad: the animations are displayed for Björk to see them as a teleprompter, and also another animation is shown to the public created by the music produced by the iPad. Malinowski also designed the iPad apps animations, every song in the album has an animation within the app.
Saturday, 9 July 2011
Words
For some time now, I've felt that the focus on Nordic literature could probably be widened to include writing and translation from other parts of Europe, so I have started yet another blog (it may eventually end up being more a conventional website than a blog) - not a successor or alternative to the Nordic Voices blogs, but maybe a supplement and/or addition to them.
Sinikka Langeland
Norwegian folksinger, kantele player and composer Sinikka Langeland has recorded a new CD album with the title The Land That Is Not, based on poems by Edith Södergran. The album will be released on the ECM label in the autumn, and adds to the already considerable list of recordings by this unusual artist, who combines the kind of sound one associates with the singing of Joni Mitchell with "the oddness of Björk", as one publicity handout puts it. There are samples of Sinikka Langeland's work in several places on the Internet, including this Myspace site.
Friday, 8 July 2011
Vinduet 2/2011
The new issue of Norsk Gyldendal's literary magazine, Vinduet, is now published, and as its leading editorial proclaims it's something of a mixed bag (the phrase is used in English). The atmosphere of the magazine is as curious as ever - in the articles and associated graphics and photos there are occasional eerie cultural echoes of the 1960s and 70s, and one sometimes has the impression that in literary terms, at least. Norway has a secret hankering for that ground-breaking but also traumatic period in the country's history.
Britain's Poet Laureate (in Norwegian this becomes hoffpoet) Carol Ann Duffy is the subject of a fairly long article by author and journalist Jostein Sæbøe, who recently published a Norwegian translation of Duffy's collection Mean Time, and there's a version of her poem 'Oslo'. Dag Solstad, who is 70 this year, receives extensive treatment from several authors, including Trond Haugen, who contributes an interesting review of Espen Hammer's Solstad monograph. For Hammer, Haugen suggests, Solstad's progression from the literary absurdism of the 1960s to the Marxism/Maoism of the 1970s was not a major break, but in some senses merely represented an extension of the 'absurd' into the political realm. There's a tribute to Gunvor Hofmo, who is now 90, and a long feature on the Iranian writer Mahmoud Dowlatabadi. Christopher Hitchens, Lorrie Moore and Russian novelist Andrei Gelasimov are the focus of other prominent items in the issue.
Britain's Poet Laureate (in Norwegian this becomes hoffpoet) Carol Ann Duffy is the subject of a fairly long article by author and journalist Jostein Sæbøe, who recently published a Norwegian translation of Duffy's collection Mean Time, and there's a version of her poem 'Oslo'. Dag Solstad, who is 70 this year, receives extensive treatment from several authors, including Trond Haugen, who contributes an interesting review of Espen Hammer's Solstad monograph. For Hammer, Haugen suggests, Solstad's progression from the literary absurdism of the 1960s to the Marxism/Maoism of the 1970s was not a major break, but in some senses merely represented an extension of the 'absurd' into the political realm. There's a tribute to Gunvor Hofmo, who is now 90, and a long feature on the Iranian writer Mahmoud Dowlatabadi. Christopher Hitchens, Lorrie Moore and Russian novelist Andrei Gelasimov are the focus of other prominent items in the issue.
Thursday, 7 July 2011
Concerto grosso
by Lassi Nummi
Listen
to this tone,
tone of these days, this grass, these stones.
Tone of people, words and gazes
tone of the gazelle, of tiger, fallow deer and lark,
tone of streams, of a dark quiet room, of a distant forgotten fragrance..
Hear the tone of a dark room, of warmth – of icy brightness, of firm rising steps
tone of frozen seas, of breaking ice floes.
Tone of muscular bridges, of deed that is liberated into its realization
of movement that releases into its beauty,
of bow and arrow, of cloud and lightning, of avalanche, of echo
-- of steed bounding into a gallop.
Hear the tone of submission and defiance, of the hard cold and grey landscape
-- of misty cliff, of burning forest,
of boulders rising from foam
Listen to the tone of silence.
Hear the tone of opening lips – do not slip past it,
let your hand slip over the hair and hear its tone.
And hear the tone of steely weakness, of glassy strength,
and hear the tone of mirrors, be reflected, vanish, and be ready
at the moment of your birth, as you hear it,
tone of shattering mirrors:
tone that senses its form, tone of strength being liberated into its firmness:
Be born, step outside your mirrors and the shards of your mirrors and be free!
And be ready, and stretch out your hands to meet the hands that wait in the darkness.
So listen to what is left: the flowing tone of days and nights.
Hear the happy days and the mist and the wind and the rain and the clouds.
Do not forget the tone of affection, touch, of simple joy and the caressing gaze.
Do not flee the tone of death. The tone of death is bright, exhausted and free.
Leave the rest - leave the rest, and seek only the tone of silence
and build your dwelling beside it. When it is ready, when you stand in its doorway,
let the silence be silent, and let new voices ignite on the borders of muteness:
you listen to a new tone, all the voices of the world resound in it.
You are listen. You listen to every voice, you listen to every voice
and yet hear only one, -- distant, -- near, -- through them all.
No nights, no days, no love, no pain – no longer. Only a flowing tone
No beginning, no end. You are dead, you are alive. Take your crown, release your gaze
and listen, with forehead raised.
[from Tahdon sinun kuulevan, 1954]
translated from Finnish by David McDuff
Listen
to this tone,
tone of these days, this grass, these stones.
Tone of people, words and gazes
tone of the gazelle, of tiger, fallow deer and lark,
tone of streams, of a dark quiet room, of a distant forgotten fragrance..
Hear the tone of a dark room, of warmth – of icy brightness, of firm rising steps
tone of frozen seas, of breaking ice floes.
Tone of muscular bridges, of deed that is liberated into its realization
of movement that releases into its beauty,
of bow and arrow, of cloud and lightning, of avalanche, of echo
-- of steed bounding into a gallop.
Hear the tone of submission and defiance, of the hard cold and grey landscape
-- of misty cliff, of burning forest,
of boulders rising from foam
Listen to the tone of silence.
Hear the tone of opening lips – do not slip past it,
let your hand slip over the hair and hear its tone.
And hear the tone of steely weakness, of glassy strength,
and hear the tone of mirrors, be reflected, vanish, and be ready
at the moment of your birth, as you hear it,
tone of shattering mirrors:
tone that senses its form, tone of strength being liberated into its firmness:
Be born, step outside your mirrors and the shards of your mirrors and be free!
And be ready, and stretch out your hands to meet the hands that wait in the darkness.
So listen to what is left: the flowing tone of days and nights.
Hear the happy days and the mist and the wind and the rain and the clouds.
Do not forget the tone of affection, touch, of simple joy and the caressing gaze.
Do not flee the tone of death. The tone of death is bright, exhausted and free.
Leave the rest - leave the rest, and seek only the tone of silence
and build your dwelling beside it. When it is ready, when you stand in its doorway,
let the silence be silent, and let new voices ignite on the borders of muteness:
you listen to a new tone, all the voices of the world resound in it.
You are listen. You listen to every voice, you listen to every voice
and yet hear only one, -- distant, -- near, -- through them all.
No nights, no days, no love, no pain – no longer. Only a flowing tone
No beginning, no end. You are dead, you are alive. Take your crown, release your gaze
and listen, with forehead raised.
[from Tahdon sinun kuulevan, 1954]
translated from Finnish by David McDuff
Anarchy in the UKR
 |
| Serhiy Zhadan |
Now Bonniers are set to publish the book in Nils Håkanson's Swedish translation. It's unclear whether an English version is planned - somehow one feels that it ought to be.
Saturday, 2 July 2011
Nordic Voices in Print
Please note that Nordic Voices in Print now has a single Web address:
http://nordicvoicesinprint.wordpress.com
The alternate URL
http://nordicvoices.xtreemhost.com
is no longer active.
http://nordicvoicesinprint.wordpress.com
The alternate URL
http://nordicvoices.xtreemhost.com
is no longer active.
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