I had forgotten what the northern spring does to me. Arriving here as spring slowly evolved seems to have triggered the long dormant pollen allergy that used to make this time of year such a torment when I lived here. I went to Lillehammer for the wonderfully well organized Norwegian Litterature Festival, the Sigrid Undset days, then straight to Madrid for the equally impressive Feria del Libro. Both events stunning in scope and organization, but very different. The Lillehammer annual book festival now in its fifteenth year is a focused litterary celebration presenting 180 literary events over four days. The Feria del Libro has been going since 1933 and it is a 6 week massive literary market with over 300 book stores presenting a selection of books in stands across the Parque del Retiro in central Madrid. This year’s Feria had a Scandinavian focus. My perspective may be a little influenced by the fact that in Lillehammer I was a draw card, while in Madrid I was thrown into the crowd of successful Scandinavian crime writers as an oddity. However, the opportunity to meet Spanish readers, my Spanish publisher and some of the people who sell my book made it a very much worth while visit. The Swedish Embassy in Madrid struck my as wonderfully switched on and supportive. It would be nice to see more embassies around the world make such good social and political use of cultural opportunities. 

But back to where I began. The allergy. Miraculously I managed to go through with my speeches in both places, reserving the worst attacks of coughing for the social events.

Back in Stockholm I have slowly recovered and today’s torrential rains should help a lot. On Monday I fly to Marseill, this time for a holiday! Can’t wait.

April in Paris. Not a month, but a week. Still. Europe at its most fragile time of the year. Blossoming chestnut trees and lilacs. I sit at cafes and watch people walk past. And I feel at home. They may not think so (if they see me), but I do. It feels like a very long time since this world was mine. Yet it is so satisfying being here, even if just as an onlooker. An inside onlooker.

I tried to describe to a friend what the difference is between my two worlds. It’s hard to put into words. I think it has to do with the sense of belonging. Whatever effort I make to become one with my new home country it feels as if I fail. It’s superficial, however hard I try. I know more than the average tourist, but the country is not mine. I don’t own it, it doesn’t own me. We are respectful acquaintances , at best. I remain an outsider looking in.

My hotel room here has no TV, so I will have to get used to my own conscious company. Not easy, but I think I will manage.  I sleep well. It’s been a very long time.

my solitary dinner, I am brave at lunch time, but dinner…

When Sonata for Miriam was published in Sweden, Swedish composer Alexander Ekroth-Baginski was commissioned to write a short excerpt to be used for the audio edition of the book. This was so wonderfully perceptive and beautiful that he was commissioned to complete what is the adagio from the Sonata for Miriam that the main character in the novel writes for his daughter Miriam. It is my hope that Alexander will have the opportunity to complete the entire sonata.

The adagio was later recorded in Auckland, New Zealand, with Lara Hall playing the violin and Mikhail Tablis piano.

Listen to the music here: Sonata for Miriam

Writing is mostly a very lonely activity (not sure if activity is the right word in my case). So, when suddenly a ray of light enters the dark space where I exist it brings great joy. And a moment of light. Today, paralysed in front of my computer waiting for words that just would not emerge, I googled myself. The ultimate egocentric frivolity, I suppose. I happened to land on a German review of my second novel, Die Nacht tägt deinen Namen. And suddenly there was light. Beautifully written, it expressed such profound sympathy and understanding of my intentions that I felt like crying.

Read the review here (in German): Die Nach trägt deinen Namen

A friend recently reminded me of a quote by French author and philosopher Albert Camus:

Au milieu de l‘hiver, j‘ai découvert en moi un invincible été - In the midst of winter, I have discovered that I carry inside me an invincible summer. 

I have often felt the opposite, perhaps especially so this long, hot and humid summer. But it is drawing to it’s end. There is a sharp crispness in the air in the morning and the sun rises with me. It feels like a relief. That invincible innner summer is all I need. 

All white. Nothing. It’s humid hot summer here, but my mind is elsewhere. Or nowhere.