My Swedish publisher, AB Bonniers Förlag, have compiled a CD with music from my new book. I am, of course, very touched. It can be ordered here: adlibris
It goes without saying that I love this music. There are two very special pieces on this cd:
Firstly the commissioned adagio from the Sonata itself, the Sonata to Miriam. Swedish composer Alexander Ekroth- Baginski has done a wonderful job of transfering my words into music. It is just … well, listen!
The second special piece on the cd is the Passacaille by Szymon Laks. It exists, as far as I know, only in one other recording. Listen and sink into the music!

Stockholm in December 2007

‘For a writer, the experience of living in a number of countries is an enormous boon. You can only understand the world if you see it from several sides. My latest book, which came into being in France, unfolds in a special geographic space: Those events which take place in Prague are seen through West European eyes, while what happens in France is seen through the eyes of Prague. It is an encounter of two worlds.’

Milan Kundera

Karekare in January 2008

The second novel as it will look when it is published by Albert Bonniers Förlag next year.

‘But words must be found, for besides words there is almost nothing –’
Szymon Laks, from the overture to ‘Music of another world’

The days are short. Time flies. Nothing gets done. The process of procrastination is taking its toll. I have given myself a deadline since nobody else has. Problem is, I don’t respect myself. Sunday, the deadline is Sunday. And into the darkness I wander…

The snow vanished over night and the crows returned to finish off the elderberries on the tree by the rubbish shed. The world is still, poised between seasons. My task is still undone. I have come to realize that one part of my resistance has to do with how I view this manuscript. To me, it’s not words on paper, or on my hard drive. It’s real characters, real stories. It is as hard for me to change them as it would be to try and change the character or the past of a loved one.
People I love may have flaws, but I love them as they are and although I sometimes wish for their sake that I could, I would never attempt at changing them. It is simply impossible. And their stories are as they are.
It surprises me when I hear people comment on stories in books as being unrealistic. Real stories in real life are so often utterly unrealistic. Created stories must inevitably be constructed with building blocks from real life. Hence they are as realistic, or unrealistic, as those in life. Characters in literature as irrational as those in life.

That said, of course there is scope for improvement in the telling. There always is. But then there is also always the risk that changes will not improve, but destroy. It’s a bit like building a house, then being told to dismantle the whole construction and build another one from the pieces. Will it look or function better?

The first snow arrived this morning. Large flakes slowly falling and melting quickly as they touched the ground. It’s not the season, the gradually vanishing daylight or the cold. It’s my own inability to face the task…

Overnight, the trees on the church yard across the street dropped their leaves. The spectacular yellow colour now on the ground and the trunks black and naked. It happened so quickly and I felt unprepared. Also, with daylight savings ended the world feels different and it is as if we are in a peculiar inbetween state. Taking a breath and waiting for the real cold. The editing notes have arrived and it’s time to face the process. Have started reading the Swedish audio book and keeping my fingers crossed that I can escape flus and colds until it’s done.

As interesting each time: here is the Italian edition of my novel. I wish I could read Italian, but the month I spent in Lugano last year didn’t give me enough grasp of the language to attempt even my own novel. It looks beautiful, and I look forward to hearing how it will be received.

Sometimes it’s good to dance. Here is some music to make you wish you had the right partner to take you through the steps. That, and the right place, and the right time. And if all that is not available, well, then just close your eyes and glide on the sound.

naïve V4978/ www.naiveclassique.com

Time passes and nothing much gets done. The weather has turned cold and I realize the clothes I brought in July are both worn and insuffient. There are lots of things that need doing here in the apartment - people ask where I am when I call because of the strange hollow sound. My steps echo so I am mostly barefoot. The floors are always warm here. Strange how warm the indoors are, and how cold the outdoors. In Auckland it’s often the other way around.

I reread ‘Talking to Mr. K.’, a story I wrote some time ago. It’s a fictional interview with Franz Kafka, but I really do feel as if I have met him under that tree by Lake Naiwasha in Kenya. His responses to my questions are true quotes attributed to him in real life. Now, when I read his words again, I am struck by the inherent desperate truth that they contain.

Anyone who cannot come to terms with his life while he is alive, needs one hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate . . . but with his other hand he can note down what he sees among the ruins.

and

I have often thought that the best mode of life for me would be to sit in the innermost room of a spacious locked cellar with my writing things and a lamp…. And how I would write! From what depths I would drag it up! Without effort! For extreme concentration knows no effort. The trouble is that I might not be able to keep it up for long, and at the first failure… would be bound to end in a grandiose fit of madness.

and on reading:

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.