Wera SætherNorwayWriting1997

Civitella Ranieri. It has happened. It will never happen to me again. Sunflowers, solitude, puppies. Powercuts. Food to melt with. Yes, I miss us. It was a strong time and will never leave me. I wrote a novel. I came to new places within. And some people there are with me still, some kind of shared destiny. I do not know. I really do not know.


From: Son of Dust


It could have been asbestos. Fireproof. Or was it inextinguishable, strands of hair and of down. They could not be seen. Gray, it flamed gray. He had to gather every grain. It made all the difference. Do you hear? All the difference. Little Emil slept back then in a tatted bonnet from his father’s mother. The bonnet lay in place upon the down. It lay so tenderly in place and blended in with his baby head. Little Emil had had another bonnet at first. Don’t think about that first bonnet, which went down. This second bonnet had an edging that brought to mind the forest. What could a tatted bonnet edging have to do with a forest? The tatting had something to do with a marsh and with globe flowers. That’s how it was with everything that lived. It all had something to do with a marsh and with globe flowers. Under the bonnet lay the downy head. That light, perishable down. Everything has its time under heaven. A time to rise, and another to sink. A time for down, and another without. Sleep now, my little prince, when I blow out the light.


Translated from the Norwegian by Susan Schwartz Senstad.
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