Om mørke

by Josefine Klougart

Om mørke er både undergangsfortælling og skabelsesberetning. Der er jordskælv, laviner, eksplosioner, skybrud, hesteulykker, øjenskader, en ung mand, der mister sin far, en kæreste, der gerne vil have adgang til sorgen og til ham, der er muligvis et mord, i hvert fald masser af død. Der er forelskelse, perler, flotte gaver fra en familie, æblerov i Bogens, en rejse til Italien, gåture på stranden, alt det kragesølv du kan slæbe med hjem og rav.

Den undergang som bogen beskriver, er ikke kun den ekstraordinære dramatiske undergang, men først og fremmest den undergang vi er vidner til hver dag. Den daglige kronfrontation med døden i smerten, sygdommen, kroppen der ændrer sig, neglene der skal klippes igen, frugten i skålen der rådner, efteråret der æder sig ind på os. Simpelthen det at man er vidne til en altomsluttende afvikling hver dag.

Samtidig er bogen en protest mod de her grundlæggende præmisser. Bogen insisterer på at det hele ikke er så enkelt. At der ikke er et på den ene side og så på den anden, men at døden, forfaldet, tabet, sorgen alt sammen er en del af det samme liv, alt sammen også rummer en skønhed. At den meningsløse opløsning kan være livgivende, simpelthen fordi den er livet i et andet stadie, fordi det hele er en del af det samme kredsløb. Døden som en bekræftelse af det liv, der hele tiden er, den skønhed der hele tiden findes og den kærlighed der er.

Genres: Fiction, Poetry, Denmark, Scandinavian Literature, Danish, Novels, Contemporary

329 pages, Hardcover

First published December 1, 2013

Reviews

[И~N · Rating 4 out of 5]

Отзивът е наличен тук . По-долу споделям откъси и цитати.


Окото плаче, понеже през цялото време губи нещо. Градове. Гледки.
Всичко онова, което окото вече не вижда, е загубено.
...
Лицето, което хлътна, както когато човек чете с вътрешен глас.
…
Градовете, които напускаме, ни съсипват по мъничко. Това ще рече, че сме оставили по нещо от себе си на всички места, където сме били.
Сега светлината може да влиза по-лесно, но изтича от нас с главозамайваща скорост.
..
Тя го посещава отново, след много дълго време. Тъкмо затова си говорят. Той се поклаща на стола напред-назад. Добър приятел е, мисли си тя. Той казва, че нямал нужда да се влюбва отново, че всичко е свършило. Че след нея всичко е свършило. Когато отива до кухнята, за да донесе две портокала и малко шоколад, които да вземат в планината, това беше преди да установят, че нямат време да ходят там, не и този ден – тя тръгва да обикаля сама дневната му. Толкова е стара, дневната. За първи път го посещава. Прокарва пръсти по няколко ктиги, по рамката на снимката, която той е направил, вижда фруктиерата с изсъхнали плодове. Три праскови, една ябълка, сбръчкани и матови, хлътнали бузи. Мисли си, че това е най-тъжното нещо, което е виждала, някога, плодове, които се валят вкаменени и изсъхнали във фруктиери, във всички онези изоставени хорски домове, всичките съсипани хора, онези, които все още усещат липса и дълго ще я усещат, ако не и завинаги – тук плодовете се застояват прекалено дълго и изчезват прекалено бавно и никога напълно. Оставят ги там като органичен часовник, който отмерва времето от деня, в който е започнала мъката, след като всичко е свършило. Сякаш тези хора искат да им се напомня, че всичко е потънало в застой и разруха; или да напомнят на самите себе си, че всичко се движи, заобикалайки ги. И те самите също; старостта на плодовете става старост на тялото, състоянието на плодовете се съпоставя с това на тялото. Скърбящото тяло и умиращия плод. Умиращото тяло, което празнува скръбта. Любов, която се превръща в загриженост и внимание към упадъка.
…
Гласът ѝ следва примера на всичко друго в стаята: пада и притихва. Неговото тяло, което вече не е там. Отпечатъците то човешкото тяло в известен смисъл са по-човешки, отколкото самите тела. Те съдържат тялото като негатив, но също и нещо друго. Един съвсем фундаментален вокален диапазон, човешката тоналност, която звучи в отпечатъка.
…
Следобедното слънце е по-жълто и по-тежко от утринното, от предобедното; сякаш целта му е да те убеди, че денят все още е налице, че далеч не е минал, още не; че все още е прекалено рано да се предадеш, скрий белите знамена, че нищо на този свят не е прекалено късно.
…
Зимата е по-дълга от лятото, защото се проточва навътре в нещата. Преброява ребрата и си ги присвоява.
…
Небето се стоварва върху облаците и ги прави тъмни и тежки.
…
МИналото, което непрекъснато се срутва като сгради зад нас. Става нещо друго.
…
Лятната светлина изсмуква цветовете от света.
Зелено и синьо. Така ще да е.
Живият плет е черен под търбуха, а листата на брезите са искрящо зелени, вълнуват се от вятъра, когато има вятър; уморени зелени капки, когато няма.
Висят на чепки от клоните, тънките ръце.
Брезите.
Брезите, които бродят, сякаш белязани от нещо.
Белязани от нещо като: война. Обещания за смърт.
Толкова зле ли беше, та си мислеше, че ще умреш.
Толкова зле, че на човек просто му се ще да умре.
…
Свободата е нещо, което човек е имал, тя съществува само впоследствие, в споменит, точно затова е толкова носталгична идеята и тъкмо идея.
…
Целият език превод на нещо.
Листата на кестените, както изникват в хода на няколко дни в началото на май, са превод.
…
Светлината има възраст.
Това е болезненото при светлината, въодушевяващото мрака.
Това го разбира тялото.
Тя човърка някакви книжки, оставени на масата. По този начин минава време.
Тялото се нагажда към всичко. Тялото акумулира време. Тялото приема времето на светлината.
Утринната светлина е на 8.3 минути, когато попада върху лицетон ни. Ние абсорбираме това време, ставаме все по-стари по силата на количеството време, което се стоварва върху ни.
Ако останем в мрака, нещата стоят другояче.
…
Ако в едно помещение няма достатъчно светлина, картината ще трябва да се размаже или изобщо да не се получи.
Човек не разполага с неограничено количество светлина.
Ако в едно помещение няма достатъчно мрак, контурите ще се заличат, лицата ще угаснат.
Човек не разполага с досатъчво количество мрак.
…
Човек невинаги може да види какво има в очите на другия, много лесно може да се окаже, че вижда отражение на самия себе си; всички гладки повърхности могат да бъдат това; самият теб и по този начин същински ад. Да виждаш себе си непрекъснато, да си възвърнеш себе си, собствените си представи и фантазии.
…
Морето не е обещавало нищо на никого, по този начин не е изменчиво. То просто си се вълнува, без всъщност да има воля.
…
Ръбът на чашата е ехо от влажния кант под миглите.
…
Съществува нещо като движение без посока навътре един в друг, съществува и противоположното: движение без посока, отдалечавайки се. Навън и така нататък. Горестта е без посока, горестта се насочва към кухините по света; е, в кои гори, в кои пространства; нищо, за което да съжаляваш, нищо не може да бъде прието. Колониите като пусти местности в историята, припомнена картина на алеите в концентрационните лагери без постройки, само дърветата, които са останали. Педантичността на паметта по отношение на болезнените неща, онези, които акумулират болка и я консервират.
…
Скоро слънцето е пресушило всичките мисли , те са сухи и гниещи плодове, каквито се мъдрят във висчки панички при скърбящите, има имплозии на вселени, на дни, които са можели да бъдат, но така и не са се случили.
…

[Antonomasia · Rating 3 out of 5]

ARC review

Josefine Klougart's previous book, One of Us Is Sleeping contained some of the most spectacular prose I read last year, so of course I was keen to read On Darkness, the second of her works to be translated to English.

Sleeping was so rich in original metaphors that I wondered if it would be possible for any writer to sustain such a level of creativity over several works. Sadly, my impression from Of Darkness is that she used up a lot of that inner store on the earlier book. (Don't take my opinion for gospel, though: Of Darkness was just as acclaimed in Klougart's native Denmark, and currently has a higher average rating on Goodreads: 3.72 v. 3.31.)

Klougart works heavily in the stream of consciousness mode and I think her work would generally benefit from the accompanying introductions that even some new translated novels have these days. Of Darkness felt less focused, ever more abstract than its predecessor. (My e-ARC had very little spacing between sections, however. I'd not be surprised if the layout of a paper copy added a little more structure to the prose-poetry.)
Where the blurb for One of Us Is Sleeping helped elucidate the contents and themes, I felt that for Of Darkness overpromised in theme and depth; the book struggled to live up to the description "this genre-bending apocalyptic novel... [of] poetic meditations on life and death interspersed with haunting imagery .... asks readers to reconsider death, asserting sorrow and loss as beautiful and necessary aspects of living." (Blurb as shown on Amazon and Goodreads, Jan 2017.) What I actually read was fragmentary material surprisingly similar to One of Us Is Sleeping - in which Klougart dealt mostly with two emotionally devastating breakups that occurred within a year, and also her mother's cancer diagnosis and treatment - here again are painful moments and thoughts from insecure relationships, brief moments of her family caring for a dying relative, descriptions of the seasons and holidays, and trips to the parental home in which the author comes across as childlike more than a woman of nearly thirty. There were also moments of almost horror-like disturbing imagery including scenes of realistic or fantastical horse riding accidents and injuries. (There is a fair bit in the book about riding, and I wondered if readers with equestrian experience might get more out of those sections. For me that's a road untravelled: I had a couple of goes on a friend's horse as a teenager, it was fun, she said I seemed like a natural, but it was expensive, I was quite often ill, and what's more, had witnessed a horrible riding accident as a kid.) In the second half of the book, there is that Annie Hall conceit: a film [script] revising some episodes from earlier in the story; at one point a character references Persona, and frankly, it is more abstract and fragmented than the Bergman film, almost parodically arthousey. (Is Klougart intentionally turning, or geographically reclaiming, Allen's device into something closer to that of the Scandinavian auteur who inspired him?)

Unfortunately I found little or none of the increased philosophical depth promised, and which I hoped for. Instead, again, I was thinking as I read of her thousand chilly instances of relationship anxiety "you poor thing" (which I never mean in a patronising way, it's always an upwelling of empathy, words to use when hugging is inappropriate or impossible), hoping that as Klougart gets older, she starts to feel more emotionally solid and to spend time with kinder people who won't make her feel so sad and alone in the most mundane of moments - and also let go of the rubbishy blanket generalisations about men; they are all individual and different people same as women, and a Cosmo column is no guide to what each of them is thinking. There are various losses, sporadically through the book, not much actual death; I found no unified or penetrating reflection on on these experiences among the preponderance of low-level anxiety and melancholy.

Whether or not there had been much intellectualising, I would likely have been induced to give Klougart another 5-star rating, or at least a 4, if only I'd been blown away by the writing itself, as I was in Sleeping. This is different enough that I'd have believed it a less interesting and talented author trying to imitate the author of the earlier book, someone who simply didn't have the same facility with metaphor and who'd very likely read Elizabeth Smart's By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept. It's the same translator for both Klougarts, as well, Martin Aitken; I've read enough of his work to feel sure that he's excellent, and well able to reflect differences between authorial voices and books. The other curious thing, which perhaps contributed most to this middling rating, was that I hardly ever connected with the descriptions. It was a bizarre experience: two books by the same author written only a year apart; one captured and illustrated certain moments and experiences like nothing else, like seeing a great photograph with beautifully done enhancement effects when those were still brand new; this one: disconnect, disconnect, disconnect, almost every time. (One of the few similar experiences I can remember was with Liz Phair: how much I loved her first two albums as a first-year student, then came the the deflating whitechocolatespaceegg. It didn't feel like the same person talking to me any more - only that record was made 4-5 years after my favourites.)

Pain is a general term for the feeling that arises when seeing the person inside you vanish from the body.
Well, I see what you're getting at; I think I know a bit about how pain can make the self feel drowned out as by loud noise, and/or flail in panic, but physical pain alone does not make it vanish. That takes other forms of damage.
Pale furniture, a thistle in the rearmost pot, nature as a kind of darkness inside the city, wrapped around us like a cloak or a shawl.
Nope, I see the city as a thing plonked on top of nature and whose crannies nature is always trying to break through. (It was probably before I read Rising Damp by U.A. Fanthorpe - a few typos in the transcript there - that I saw it that way, but ever since, that poem has typified it for me.)

And again and again and again. This is nothing more than an emphatic example of my not being on the same wavelength as someone else. These ideas and images might work for other readers.

I was a little irritated by descriptions that mean to be evocative but are actively contrary to sensory experience or scientific understanding:
Snow makes a sound when it falls and settles, as it becomes compressed, as it wanders through the various layers of the world. Crystals grow. Blood has sound—when the body is punctured, you can it hear it sing.
or The mountains’ hearts possess will in the way of our own.

There were lines I could imagine seeming perfect to someone else, pretty good, but which just didn't wow me as did the previous book, perhaps because they were too few:
You drink as if alcohol were the answer to a very important question. A test that’s been given.
or
The winter crop upholsters the fields from below, a dusting of green velvet or cotton, growing and encasing the soil
or
Like the feathers of a wing, the books lean first one way then the other. Plants with their pots broken open like petals scattered on the floor, the white roots extending their pale and sleepy capillaries, soil spread about a core; like her heart, the core of her warmth and the occasional sounds that issue out into the room that encloses her body....There is such a lot of emotional pain expressed here in descriptions of the physical; there is a subtle horror to it all.

The publication date of this translation is 14th February; perhaps there is the right sort of single melancholic out there, who loves this sort of writing, for whom this would make a good Valentine present-to-self.

An idea of Klougart: if Pessoa was a woman in her twenties who was always in bad relationships because she couldn't cope with being single.
I didn't get on too well with The Book of Disquiet; so many others do, including good friends, it's just somehow not right for me.

There were occasional glimpses of features I loved in One of Us Is Sleeping, such as the author's eye for intimate mundane details I feel almost no-one else would write down, and which are usually only seen to such strong effect in film:
She holds the pearl necklace to her mouth, pressing three pearls inside like a bit. Or, in a car, They are startled by the sound as the belt retracts, the metal clasp striking the window.

I can't tell you what a person might think of this book if they hadn't read the author's previous, such was the impact that one had on me, and such is the similarity of material between the two. Personally, I would say that if you're going to read only one of the author's books (and especially if you like fecund abundance of metaphor, and don't, for instance, think that Bruno Schulz is overwritten) then it should be One of Us Is Sleeping. However, read in reverse order without considering publication dates, I'd not be surprised if they gave the impression of a leap forward in the writer's craft.


Thank you to Edelweiss, and the publisher, Deep Vellum Press, for this free advance review copy.

[Kirstine · Rating 2 out of 5]

I don't know what this is about or what it tried to do. I floated through it hoping for a sense of clarity that never came. It's pretty and the individual sentences are lovely, but if there's any real substance it eludes my abilities.

[Ronald Morton · Rating 3 out of 5]

Ephemeral and fragmentary, told across a variety of styles, this book never really coalesced into anything beyond well written scraps. The opening pages had me thinking this would reach heights it never really did; there were sections towards the end that had my thinking it would pull together to something more, but even at the end it all just sort of faded away into a hazy mist. Not bad, but it left me wanting more, as if some connecting fiber was just beyond reach. It likely didn't help that I read 3/4ths of it sick in bed, but ultimately I just felt a bit lost by the whole thing.

2.5 stars, rounded up.

[Alekz · Rating 5 out of 5]

Guld.

[jeremy · Rating 3 out of 5]

all the living and all the dead. how to make room for oneself in such a world.

mining territory explored previously in her exquisite one of us is sleeping , josefine klougart's of darkness (om mørke), disappointingly, lacks the focus, cohesiveness, and poise of her previous outing. the danish novelist's latest work to be translated into english combines elements of prose, poetry, and drama in a unique format well-suited to her ongoing examination of grief, loss, death, solitude, memory, time, and emotion. but whereas one of us is sleeping was buoyed by a narrative, of darkness is hampered by its ethereal nature and elusive thinness. nonetheless, klougart again excels at crafting vivid imagery and a gorgeous, fluid writing style which invokes as much as it inebriates. klougart is a gifted writer, though of darkness doesn't match the excellence of one of us is sleeping. with some additional novels yet to be rendered into english (including her nordic council literature prize-nominated debut, stigninger og fald (rise and fall)), as well as some prose poems, klougart most certainly remains an author to keep an eye on in the coming years.

pain cannot be divided and cannot as such be understood.
there's no language for it.
in that way it is divine and yet a problem for music, for art, and for people by and large.

~

of darkness, much remains to be said.

~

presumably, he wants to see you happy.
he knows i won't be. he knows i never will. he's not that stupid.
he knows me.

~

all language is a translation of something.

~

in a way, the past is the only thing we have. who can say they feel more now than they did then. if you turn and look back for someone, we all know what happens.
the fact that we do so anyway.

*translated from the danish by martin aitken (klougart's one of us is sleeping, nors, høeg, adler-olsen, et al.)

[Justin Holinka · Rating 5 out of 5]

The space between eyes and what is seen—what is envisaged—is what fills Josefine Klougart’s Of Darkness: a short, expansive novel full of breaths that continually spiral around recurring concepts, which in some way lead toward darkness.

With prose striking similarities of Anne Carson and Harry Mathews’ vignettes (with a definite note of Gertrude Stein’s obsessions with image and repetition), Klougart creates a novel that expands rather than progresses. —There is little point in discussing story, for story, if it even here exists, is not the point. Spaces between things and people, continuous evolution, and the last glimpses before light goes out: These and more are her subjects.

“The body adjusts to all things. The body accumulates time. The body takes in the time of light.
The morning light is 8.3 minutes old when it is shed upon our faces. We absorb this time, becoming older and older still, depending on the amount of time that is shed upon us.
If we stay in the dark it’s different.”


It starts with an accumulation of seemingly unrelated, fleeting images beautifully yet distantly described. There is a she; there is a him; there is another she. But little else matters about these characters, as they are simple stand-ins for the universal you and I, the placeholders around whom emotions and observations swirl. The novel moves into a section of “Sapphic Fragments.” These fragments dance across the page—almost chaotically, yet there is an unmistakable beauty to the concrete placements that evokes a sensual rhythm.


“about to happen. For both of us.

joy and relief the first


But what I’m saying is
no party, so”


Following “Sapphic Fragments” is “Of Darkness.” These two sections account for the only named portions. “Of Darkness” is both the darkest and most intimate portion of the whole. True to form, Klougart herein blurs the lines between essay, poetry, and narrative. Where before there was expanse, there is here contraction. Things come together, close, in an uncomfortable manner.


“The individual body, the individual planet, possesses unimaginable speed and is proceeding insanely towards destruction. She reaches up and raises her eye to her lips. With two fingers she presses the orb between them. She stands for a moment, the eye in her mouth, the planet soon to block out the light from the window in front of them. One has the feeling of everything closing in, and yet one might easily claim the opposite. That would be true as well.”


Her ability to capture what lies beneath the thoughts that underlie interactions creates unsettling scenes, where hidden emotions leap to the foreground while spoken words sink away.


“My face is your face.
We decide to make love. My face is your face. And when she opens her eyes, her eyes have become white.
She closes them again.
When she opens her eyes, they are black.
The entire orb, black.
She tries again, and now they are blue, they are acceptable.
Borrowed new eyes, and yet seemingly so—and this is the word she thinks—REALISTIC. We realise this is important to her, to live a realistic life, whatever that is. And when she puts a dish of steamed fish down on the table, she thinks to herself: This is a realistic fish. These are lovely potatoes, he says later, and she thinks: This is a realistic thing to say. At this point in time it’s realistic that he say such a thing. Compliment her on the food. And their entire life together can be realistic, she thinks. The thought comforts her. The fact that she can ENVISAGE it being so.
And so she is reconciled.”


“Understanding emotions” could be said to be the topic; but even that seems too facile for what this book contains. A novel containing poetry, essay, and theater: Of Darkness was beautifully uncomfortable, and Klougart affected me again and again with her masterful prose rendered here into English by Danish translator Martin Aitken.

[Liselotte Howard · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ni vet hur jag alltid klagar på pretentiös prosa - på unga romanförfattare som bara skriver för att skriva, på ord som bara är ord, på böcker som inte handlar om någonting? Då vet ni kanske också hur Josefine Klougart seglar förbi alla mina tjuriga försvarsmurar...? Nä, inte jag heller.
Jag försöker lite i början; både att hitta något att klaga på, och att hitta en handling. Men det är bara att kapitulera. Texten är så... böljande. Jag flyter med. Jag somnar mitt i meningar, oftare än vanligt (och det är ofta!), men inte för att det är tråkigt utan för att orden vaggar mig till lugn. Det är hemskt, och sorgligt och nästan äckligt på vissa ställen, men även här får Klougart mig att flyta vidare.
I kursen jag läser just nu pratar vi om läsförståelse - och här fattar jag faktiskt ingenting. Samtidigt är en av faktorerna forskningen lyfter för just läsförståelse med, hela vägen; förmågan att skapa inre bilder när man läser en text. Jag ser saker framför mig hela tiden när jag läser. Otydligt och vagt och ofta utan en röd tråd, men ändå; bilder.
Jag borde hata det här. Men jag älskar det.
Stående ovation på det. (Och till översättaren! Översatt litteratur är ytterligare något jag brukar klaga på, men med tanke på allt jag nämner ovan är detta ett lysande undantag!)

[Bob Lopez]

I found this book quite frustrating and not because of its flight-of-fancy, hybrid-genre constructions--it's because from one page to another I couldn't identify what as occurring, who it was occurring to. I've read that its about grief but I barely recognized any human beings in the book. There was a lot of descriptions of nature, a lot of poems that made no sense to me either as stand-alones or in the aggregate. I read over 225 pages of this novel and, never mind a clear picture, I had no picture at all in my head. I don't know what I read. No rating.

[Sonia Crites · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book is an interesting mix of poetry, prose and play. Full of dark and beautiful imagery. It has a dream like quality to it. #readingaroundtheworld. Book 29/197

[Daniel · Rating 3 out of 5]

Of Darkness represents a rare case of a book from Deep Vellum that I didn't really like. Nonetheless, as I try to do here, let me provide a review that could show potential readers out there why it might be the perfect book for them.

Klougart writes beautifully, and I would give another of her novels a try, if it were more conventional, and at least had some skeleton of plot to support the atmosphere of its words. Of Darkness might be labelled as experimental in multiple regards. It lacks narrative or character development in the usual senses of a novel, with unnamed personages flowing through the scenes of its pages, starting with a particular 'she' and 'he'. Although composed of prose, as novels typically are, the text most often veers closer to poetry, and also includes sketch illustrations and, at one point, turns briefly into the format of a script.

Poetry is not for me, as much as I've tried to read it. However, I can fall in love with poetic prose, as long as it has other aspects of story to anchor me. Even without such an anchor, I can still appreciate it in small doses, just not within a work that is over 300 pages.

Everything is shifting and merging in Of Darkness — time, space, perception, revelation, relationships — with the shifting styles of its experimental writing to mirror the nature of its themes. One moment Klougart gives us musical, poetic text and nother moment, she writes in a different fashion, more akin to typical prose of a novel.

Each evocative passage represent brief sips that impress and astound me, and the novel may have succeeded for me in its entirety if I hadn't gulped it in a few sittings, but rather just as sips every once in a while, across a span of months.

Klougart's Of Darkness is a mediative look at loss, love, pain, living, and mortality. Even with its shifting styles it can become repetitive if forced and not given time to process its details. I would vastly prefer these themes to be covered in a narrative story, with occasions of poetic interlude. But that is not what Klougart has done, and that is valid.

Though not really for me, the evident high quality of this particular work by Klougart is equally the product of its translator into English, Martin Aitken. A sparse, atmospheric, poetic novel such as this demands remarkable and delicate precision in words. I cannot speak to the precision of the translation, but Atiken keeps all of the affect that appears intended by Klougart. Aitken has also contributed to the translation of the final volume in Karl Ove Knausgaard’s epic My Struggle, which may be familiar to many readers. There is enough interest for me still in Klougart to give his translation of her novel One of Us Is Sleeping a try one day, which seems to be more appropriate for my tastes.

From my review on Reading 1000 Lives

[Thomas Christiansen · Rating 2 out of 5]

Danmark er et lille land, men med en stor litterær tradition og store forfattere. Én af de nyere i den kaliber må være Klougart og efter et tilløb har jeg læst Om mørke.
Bogen forsøger at indkredse sorg, tab og skønhed gennem et fragmenteret og billedrigt sprog, men resultatet oplever jeg desværre mere prætentiøst end rørende. Klougart skriver med æstetisk bevidsthed, uheldigvis står hendes form i vejen for indholdet. De poetiske fragmenter flyder sammen til en sløret masse, hvor jeg har svært at mærke noget konkret og til tider huskede jeg ikke, hvad jeg havde læst.
Klougart har en ambition i sit sprog, og enkelte passager glimter med indsigt, men som helhed føles bogen fjern og selvoptaget. Jeg bliver som læser holdt på afstand, og det, som kunne have været en intens undersøgelse af mørkets mange former, ender som en sproglig øvelse uden følelsesmæssig dybde.
Med Om mørke vil Klougart meget, desværre mister bogen sig selv i sine egne spejlbilleder. En litterær smuk skal uden tilstrækkeligt indhold.

[Mina Widding · Rating 4 out of 5]

Denna bok har jag högläst för mig själv, i kortare intervaller, för att kunna ta till mig den. Dessa inspelningar + reflektioner finns/kommer finnas på min blogg, för den som är nyfiken på att följa med i min läsning.
Fragmentarisk, prosalyrik, kretsar kring en relation i upplösning, ett barndomshem, en begravning, en olycka, hästar. Men framförallt poetiska betraktelser av världen, livet, relationer. Jag tyckte mycket om den, och dess skrivsätt som är så speciellt och udda. Alls inte berättande, inte narrativ, många frågor som inte får svar. Men man vistas i en språkvärld som stundtals är oerhört vacker och alltid är angenäm och intressant.

[Rob Forteath · Rating 3 out of 5]

The writing is quite lovely, and the images layer over each other like a series of waves breaking on a beach.

What stopped me from getting into the book was the unrelenting succession of absurdly dire descriptions. Everything is dying hopelessly; everything is umremitting pain and suffering; everything is the decay of a life of unrealised hopes. It didn't depress me, just made me laugh and roll my eyes.

I gave it some effort, but in the end the expiration of the library loan pulled the plug when I was perhaps two-thirds through.

[Micaela Cederlund · Rating 3 out of 5]

Klougart fascinerar, men för det mesta frustrerar hon. Skribenten skriver ur ett terapeutiskt syfte utan hänsyn till läsaren, och ställer sig emot allt som går under namnet struktur. Trots det uppskattade jag boken då den testar ny mark inom poetisk prosa. Det är på gott och ont som den utmanar vad vi uppfattar som läsarens behov. Detta är inte en rekommendation.

[Greg · Rating 2 out of 5]

Another reviewer described this as “a hazy mist of well-written scraps.” Finishing this today, I can barely string together any semblance of meaning. Some beautiful descriptions lacking (imo) any structure or cohesion.

[Sanna · Rating 2 out of 5]

Som abstrakt modern konst i litterär form: mer estetik än innehåll.

[Sophie Mangano · Rating 4 out of 5]

4.5

[Micaela Cederlund · Rating 2 out of 5]

A careless translation for a careless writer. Klougart proves that she has potential as a writer, but it is not with this book that I would like to reap the fruits of her creative abilities.

[Linea · Rating 1 out of 5]

I have literally no idea what I just read

[Зорница Иванова · Rating 4 out of 5]

"It's easier to part with something that is than something that was. Everything we lose remains inside us, while everything we have remains invisible."

[Henrik Scriver · Rating 1 out of 5]

Den er fuldstændigt usammenhængende og uforståelig.

[josie holmes · Rating 5 out of 5]

to be clear, I had an english translation. Amazing book.

[Jonas Friedrichsen · Rating 2 out of 5]

Ikke noget for mig. En ikke historie - korte passager og usammenhængende brudstykker. Enkelte steder røre den ved noget centralt, men det bliver væk i alt det flakkende.

[Sofie · Rating 4 out of 5]

Jeg synes det er fejt at kalde det en roman! Men fire stjerner for at male billeder med ordene. Klougart beskriver en række af kortfilm; klip, klip, klip. Det er poetisk, filosofisk...vagt. Det er svært at lade være med at prøve at finde frem til forfatterens intention...irriterende. Alle muligheder virker til at være åbne: Dét, eller måske var det anderledes. Bogen er trist, alvorlig, og til tider grotesk.

'Du drikker som om alkohol var svaret på et meget væsentligt spørgsmål.' (39)
'Luften kan ses som en omfavnelse af kroppen.' (73)
'Byerne vi forlader, ødelægger os en lille smule. Det vil sige, vi har efterladt lidt af os selv alle de steder, vi har været.' (91)
'Så længe der er nogen til at tælle, til at benævne noget på en måde, som ikke ødelægger; så er der noget at komme efter, en rytme i verden, en forbindelse mellem to punkter.' (142)
'De barberede hendes kranium, og hun vidste, lige der, med lukkede øjne, at hun var nødt til at lade dem operere hende i hjernen, selvom der ikke var noget som helst galt - at hun ville gå hele vejen.' (179)
'Et forsvar af en slags; en mand, der kommer gående ligesom den anden vej, på vej ud af billedet, men altså mod os, mod det sted vi er i billedet.' (191)
'Et todelt billede, som et øje skåret over af et øjenlåg.'
'...REALISTISKE. Man forstår, at det er vigtigt for hende. At leve et realistisk liv, hvad det så er. Og da hun sætter et fad med dampet fisk på bordet, tænker hun: Det er en realistisk fisk. Det er nogle dejlige kartofler, siger han senere, og hun tænker: Det er en realistisk replik.' (275)
'Morgenlyset er 8,3 minutter gammelt, når det rammer vores ansigt. Vi absorberer denne tid, bliver ældre og ældre, alt efter mængden af tid, der rammer os. / Hvis vi bliver i mørket, er det anderledes.' (281)

[Paul · Rating 2 out of 5]

Described as an experimental novel, unfortunately I found this book rather disjointed and pretentious. I kept going, hoping to find the different ideas coalescing, but to no avail. The book is made up of lots of abstract scenes and ideas, most only a couple of lines long. Sometimes in the shape of a screenplay, sometimes an essay or a few poetic thoughts. Maybe the translation drains it of some energy, but it meandered aimlessly without any light being shed or great insights revealing themselves. Portentous, pompous and plodding.

[Cecilie Nyman · Rating 5 out of 5]

Læs denne bog. Læs den langsomt. Mærk mørket. Absorber hvert et ord. Den smukkeste prosa af Josefine Klougart. Tak!

[Jette Greibe · Rating 5 out of 5]

Magisk, grusom og vanvittig smuk.

[Jonathan · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is a very beautiful book. It weaves threads and themes that are at once disparate and singular. You can read it as multiple voices or as a single voice fragmented. The length belies its content which to a very large extent is epigrammatic and aphoristic. I think Klougart shapes an excellent space in each of her vignettes or sections from what at first glance is rather sparse. I found the spaces and formatting within the text to be completely appropriate.

[World Literature Today]

"In this enormously private book, Klougart is nothing if not ambitious. Throughout, she resorts freely to the use of different pronouns to speak of the only two people captured in her writing: “I have always been she and you have always been he.” At times, both blend into an abstract we, observing her and him, as if from the outside. Of Darkness is a book about perspectives, a book about seeing the world, zooming in and out of genres as well as people, time, and space. Its consistency is not in plot or causality but in language and theme." - Felix Haas

This book was reviewed in the May 2017 issue of World Literature Today magazine. Read the full review by visiting our website: https://www.worldliteraturetoday.org/...