Body and politics

By Sindre Hovdenakk

While the major publishers are calling for books that deal with contemporary issues and politics, Norwegian writers prefer writing books about themselves. Whether it is their body, biography or position as writers. Autonomy is increasingly the name of the game in Norwegian fiction so far this decade. Although it is still true to say that only writers who write really well succeed in interesting readers outside their own narrow circle.

The Norwegian publishing world is in the middle of a far-reaching restructuring process. The three leading publishers Gyldendal, Aschehoug and Cappelen have looked to consolidate their market shares and extend their control over as many elements of the book trade as possible, i.e. publishers, book clubs, booksellers and distribution systems. Having enjoyed exemption from competition legislation, in the view of many critics the business is now basically little more than a collection of cartels. Without this exemption, publishers have consistently argued, special interest or elitist literature would face an uncertain future. "If we can't make as much money as we want, then we won't be able to publish the books you want" seems to be the message they are sending to politicians. But the political climate has changed, and publishers need to accept more competition along with a liberalized market. This puts considerable pressure on what is known colloquially as the fixed price system for new books - retailers can now offer rebates book clubs used to enjoy as an exclusive right. The price of books has fallen rapidly as a result, paperback editions are hitting the market sooner, and the wheels of commerce in the publishing sector are turning faster and faster.

Just as intriguing is how small and medium-sized publishers have marketed themselves as an alternative outlet for writers, while the majors have been locked in internal strife. Many Norwegian writers appreciate a publishing milieu where editorial priorities count for more than edicts from the marketing department. Small, flexible organizations find it easier to adapt to the needs of the writer than big organizations which concentrate mainly on themselves and in-house reporting. It is also intriguing to see how the majors, with their fiction competitions and writing academies, lay down the ground rules for the type of literature they want writers to produce.

This is a paradox, because Norwegian writers and their literary output seem to be enjoying increasing autonomy. The new writers especially - including first-timers - seem to be quite indifferent to the constraints and expectations of society. Writers are becoming better at explaining, justifying and articulating their projects. And the literary public welcomes them with open arms. The media still have a fixation on new writers. Most reviewers also seem to put on a special pair of debut spectacles when reviewing newcomers. Most new fiction writers are therefore likely to be treated more leniently than their established colleagues by critics who naturally have fewer axes to grind. And Norway continues to view the cultivation of new literature and new voices almost as a political duty. A large section of the literary public still find it difficult to associate publishing with money and commerce and markets.

The celebration of new writers and "the new" per se is evident from the numerous arrangements hosted by clubs and restaurants in towns and cities, where writers get to meet a highly appreciative readership face to face. It goes almost without saying that this level of appreciation does something to writers and their literary focus. It is probably not surprising that many of them prefer to write about themselves. Usually about their body. This fixation on the body is evident in writers like Hanne Ørstavik, Olaug Nilssen, Lars Ramslie and Trude Marstein, to mention a few. And if we're on the lookout for literary trends in the first decade of the new millennium, this is one of them.

Obviously, the best books resist simplistic classification. Among the most lucid authors to make their mark since the millennium we find names as varied as Thure Erik Lund and Frode Grytten. Lund represents - in all humility - a universe completely of his own making in contemporary Norwegian fiction. His novels are fluent, philosophical and extravaganzas of cultural criticism. In terms of genre he balances between the metaphysical and realistic, his language is simultaneously manic, chaotic, seductive and extremely advanced. Decades can come and go between the emergence of a voice as original as his, and it is given to no one to say where Thure Erik Lund is heading.

Frode Grytten's approach is slightly more subdued than Thure Erik Lund's. Grytten is a story teller, a master of the short story to boot. He knows how to pace a story in time and space, and how light-footedness combines with the dramatic. Indeed, his work tends to address universal human themes - endowed with a forcefulness only the most discerning and style-conscious writers have it in their power to invest. Grytten writes books about things that matter to the reader, with which the reader readily identifies. But he is also profoundly original.

Is it here, perhaps, somewhere between egocentricity and politics, the physical and philosophical, that Norwegian fiction is positioning itself in the autumn years of the century's first decade? What can not be doubted at least is literature's new-found independence, not to say wilfulness: the best assurance that any classification is always too late and too little. Happily.

Translated by Chris Saunders