finn carling
he has always just been a name filling a shelf of books at my grandparents place, backs of books and thats it, until i read about him in relation to my studies and realized he existed outside the book covers - as well as inside the books, through the words id never thought of reading. i knew he was a friend of my grandmother and i knew he had lived with CP until his death which i had no idea of when occured, but it’s like my interest in him never sparked because of that set impression of him, also through the amount of books, like he belonged in the row of books, his name repeatedly in different letters and different formats. its like seeing the row of books about the history of the world or something. it becomes an entity, a shape, and the content loses its relevancy, at least becomes secondary. it wasnt until i asked my grandma about him the other day, while having a morning coffee in bath robes in my grandparents usually so green garden, that now is crisp and yellow under my feet due to the long heat, that i realized there existed a person inside the name and inside the books that was worth fixing my eyes at or spend my summer days with. my grandma had gotten to know him while living in washington when she was 16 and he was 32. he had a year long residency (?) at the first black university in the us, and somehow they met and became friends. he had previously written about a character named bente, and that my grandmas name is bente was one out of several coincidences that brought them together. it was the process of him writing about his stay in english, and later having to translate it into norwegian with huge difficulties, despite it being his first language, that i had read about in that psychology book earlier this year and found myself relating to, still doing, still writing one sentence in english one in norwegian not seeing how they can be translated into each other without losing all its intention and all its meaning. they resumed (?) their friendship after my grandma being married to my grandparents for several years, when she asked him if he could lecture in the norwegian litterature class my grandpa was teaching at the moment. the friendship between the three of them became lifelong, until his death in 2004, and suddently felt brought back to life two-three days ago as we picked up the conversation, i picked up the book, my grandparents picked up old interviews and papers about him saved inside folders and on the inside of his many books. the book they gave me, recommended me to start with, was also brought back to life in terms of falling more and more apart the more pages i read. every time i close it i make sure no pages have disappeared. inside the book i found a love note from my grandpa to my grandma, as well as a card saying my mom was accepted to her local high school in 1984. it means she must have read it at almost the same time of year as me - only about 35 years earlier, being slightly younger than im today? you get those letters in the summer, late july. she just got another one, being accepted to start studying again at the age of 50, and im proud and impressed. however, the relevance of the content of the book, of his voice, is maybe what leaves the biggest impression on me. maybe it should come as no surprise, based on the preconditions for me picking it up in the first place, yet i dont think the personal importance of someone elses words should be taken for granted.
he has always just been a name filling a shelf of books at my grandparents place, backs of books and thats it, until i read about him in relation to my studies and realized he existed outside the book covers - as well as inside the books, through the words id never thought of reading. i knew he was a friend of my grandmother and i knew he had lived with CP until his death which i had no idea of when occured, but it’s like my interest in him never sparked because of that set impression of him, also through the amount of books, like he belonged in the row of books, his name repeatedly in different letters and different formats. its like seeing the row of books about the history of the world or something. it becomes an entity, a shape, and the content loses its relevancy, at least becomes secondary. it wasnt until i asked my grandma about him the other day, while having a morning coffee in bath robes in my grandparents usually so green garden, that now is crisp and yellow under my feet due to the long heat, that i realized there existed a person inside the name and inside the books that was worth fixing my eyes at or spend my summer days with. my grandma had gotten to know him while living in washington when she was 16 and he was 32. he had a year long residency (?) at the first black university in the us, and somehow they met and became friends. he had previously written about a character named bente, and that my grandmas name is bente was one out of several coincidences that brought them together. it was the process of him writing about his stay in english, and later having to translate it into norwegian with huge difficulties, despite it being his first language, that i had read about in that psychology book earlier this year and found myself relating to, still doing, still writing one sentence in english one in norwegian not seeing how they can be translated into each other without losing all its intention and all its meaning. they resumed (?) their friendship after my grandma being married to my grandparents for several years, when she asked him if he could lecture in the norwegian litterature class my grandpa was teaching at the moment. the friendship between the three of them became lifelong, until his death in 2004, and suddently felt brought back to life two-three days ago as we picked up the conversation, i picked up the book, my grandparents picked up old interviews and papers about him saved inside folders and on the inside of his many books. the book they gave me, recommended me to start with, was also brought back to life in terms of falling more and more apart the more pages i read. every time i close it i make sure no pages have disappeared. inside the book i found a love note from my grandpa to my grandma, as well as a card saying my mom was accepted to her local high school in 1984. it means she must have read it at almost the same time of year as me - only about 35 years earlier, being slightly younger than im today? you get those letters in the summer, late july. she just got another one, being accepted to start studying again at the age of 50, and im proud and impressed. however, the relevance of the content of the book, of his voice, is maybe what leaves the biggest impression on me. maybe it should come as no surprise, based on the preconditions for me picking it up in the first place, yet i dont think the personal importance of someone elses words should be taken for granted.
