The Seducer

by Jan Kjaerstad

Timbuktu was not even there. Jonas was over the moon. He was travelling into a mist, an uncharted nebula. The cloud of sand reinforced his conviction that he was not visiting a town, but a word, a name which marked the limits of the real world.

state that dwarfs its citizens so that they will become more docile instruments, even in order to do good, will find that no great thing can be accomplished with small men.

the average Norwegian does not regard avant-gardism in the arts as ‘incomprehensible’, but as a clear sign of immorality. As something decadent. I think this stems from the overweening Norwegian need to feel secure.

‘Fashion is an angel passing over, a glimpse of a wing in the air, then it is gone,’