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Literary Review
An identity of her own
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Coping with celebrity parents and an unconventional upbringing, guilt in Scandinavian literature, journalism and the changing roles in the institution of marriage; novelist Linn Ullmann talks about these and some more, to GOWRI RAMNARAYAN.
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"DON'T mention even the names of her parents to her," warned my journalist friend when she knew I was going to meet one of Norway's most talked about young writers that afternoon at Bristol Cafe, Oslo.
It is understandable. To be the daughter of world celebrities in theatre and cinema like Ingmar Bergman and Liv Ullmann invites comparisons, arouses expectations of greatness in the offspring as a matter of course. It also guaranteed an unconventional upbringing, difficult for the child, invaluable for the artist.
However, with two acclaimed novels besides a column in Aftenposten, her country's most respected daily, Linn Ullmann has no reason anymore to feel insecure about her identity and standing.
Her first novel Before You Sleep has been acclaimed as a brilliant debut for its wit, winsome charm and wisdom, and translated into 13 languages so far. The Blom family saga is told in a style that is economical, sharp cut, deceptively simple. The first person, present tense narrative has a contemporary tang, sprinkled with metaphors concrete and fantastic. The texture bristles with implications that flash back and forth into the mindframe in sudden spurts of recognition.
Karin begins with a wedding, the perfect setting for introducing grandmother June:
The old woman on the floor was no longer an old woman... Because at the same time Grandma ran her hand impatiently through her hair (which was not long and blond and shiny anymore), my eyes stroked the years away from her face.
Grandaunt Selma:
When it comes right down to it, Selma can't stand the sight of anyone. She thinks people are contemptible, weak, stupid, ridiculous, petty — but she's not some kind of morose misanthrope. On the contrary, it's rage that keeps her alive.
Mother Anni:
Anni has always been two things. Irresistible and mad. In the past she was more irresistible and less mad; now she's unfortunately more mad and less irresistible.
Sister Julie:
"It was your wedding day, Julie. I remember seeing you up there at the altar, the tiny white flowers in your hair, the long pearl-embroidered, cream-coloured and much too princess-like gown, lovely and lost, and that endless long veil trailing behind, that veil that stretched down the middle aisle of the church, out onto the steps, down the street, across the fjord, through the sky like the stroke of a brush...This must be the most godforsaken proof of love that two people can give each other, promise their love forever and always, as if that's even possible — what is the minister saying?"
Other characters, particularly the men (except grandpa Rikard), pale into shadowy wimps in comparison with these redoubtable women. Karin is a liar, yet, try as she would, she cannot hide basic truths about the people in her world. The facts may be twisted, but the feelings are accurate. Her own amorous adventures, real and imagined, are sad, lonely, smelling of the fear of rejection.
Ullmann's second novel interweaves voices recounting what they know about a woman who falls off a roof. She keeps falling through the entire book, and the narrators, though as unreliable as Karin, keep revealing as much about her as themselves.
A journalistic ploy? "Why not?" she counters. "Journalism is a way of constantly being on top of what's going on, you can't sentimentalise, it is a liberating way of communication. My description of Imelda Marcos' collection of shoes in the novel is like a soap story. As a novelist I hope to learn from journalism, as a journalist I want to draw from literature."
Ullmann shows more than she tells. The style reminds you of Don de Lillo. The affinity to cinema is not in the many references to films and actors, but in the visual urgency (a shooting sequence as it were), attention to pace, spare dialogue, clean cuts, clear editing — and a conscious use of lighting.
"That's part of belonging to a family in films and theatre. It is also very Nordic to be sensitive to varying lights and tones. I like the challenge of showing the reader an image of what's going on." She adds with a smile that unlike diffuse novels, tight, cinematic books don't make good movies!
Ullmann grew up not only with props and sets but with books. Grandma worked in a bookstore where the child spent happy hours browsing, or listening to her tales from legends and folklore. "I was with grown ups a lot and always reading. I have a passion for films, but my obsession has always been with books. Later it was natural for me to study literature." She doesn't mention it, but her parents are fine writers as well.
At 17 Linn did enrol in an acting course but after seeing her perform both mother and teacher suggested she try something else! The real blow was being told after 10 years of training that she had no hope of a career in ballet. As a writer she was to realise later that dancing had given her a sense of movement, musicality, of the nature and feel of the body.
Her years in New York University and subsequent career in journalism brought a global perspective. Are her hard hitting political reflections motivated by the guilt of First World affluence? "All Scandinavian literature is about guilt," she laughs. "In parent and child, in man-woman relationships, in being unfaithful, or not being unfaithful which means you are not following your heart! Read Ibsen, Strindberg, all you get is the Lutheran idea that you are born in sin. To be human is to feel shame. Here it is also linked to people leading careful, timid lives in a small democracy suddenly striking it rich with oil. We don't have the sophistication of long-term affluence as in say, Switzerland."
Scandinavian folk and fairy tales acquainted her with the other side of the Norwegian mind — with its penchant for the burlesque, macabre humour, and erotic feel. She also mentions names like Virginia Woolf, Tolstoy, Beckett... She is hazy about Indian writers though she is aware of the conflicts over Indians writing in English for the international market, as against those who write in the regional tongues! "The Swedish Academy is antiquated. You stand a good chance of winning the Nobel Prize if you have a beard. But now that Naipaul has won it I will have to read him," she twinkles. She enjoys the mix of genres, high-low cultures and craziness in Salman Rushdie.
Like their counterparts in the Indian languages, Norwegian writers depend on translations to reach the world. A tricky process where the author has little control. Ullmann actually rewrote parts of her book for the English translation, remains puzzled by the Greek version being 200 pages longer than the original, and is tickled at the American publishers' effort to hide the fact of her book being a translation.
A staunch feminist, she hates being identified as a woman writer. "When a woman writes about existential problems she's tackling women's issues, but when a man does the same he's dealing with human beings! Writing is not neutral or sexless, when I write I do discover what it means to be in a woman's body and speaking as a woman. But literature is where you can transcend the limitations of gender. I liked writing in the first person about an old man, a main character in my new book and I'm not yet a man — oops, I didn't mean that!" she giggles as she ducks to avoid a fellow writer passing by.
Ullmann is amused when you want to know what it is to be a "tribal" writer whose voice is faint, little heard. How does creativity find stimulation in a secluded haven? Doesn't it promote solipsistic self-indulgence? "But there's hellishness in being trapped in security," she tells you. The calm paradise has underlying dangers. Prejudices and friction flourish in remoteness. Tensions between the new settlers and the old Norwegians has wrought changes in culture, language, lifestyles, resisted by the conservatives who wish to maintain the nation's comfortable seclusion.
"There's the darkness of course!" she exclaims. "Long lightless winters breeding gloom." The breaking up of the nuclear family is a major subject with political implications as children shuttle between divorced/separated couples in a confusing "yours, mine and ours" maze. "I grew up in a family like that — you know — my ex-husband, your ex-girlfriend, my new lover... lots of friction."
The changing role of the father makes men demand their rights with children. "Our courts are full of wrangling parents, while the kids sit crying quietly outside. This theme is part of contemporary literature along with what's a family, who am I?"
Ullmann's political concerns are more overt in her columns but find covert expression in her novels. She can express our deepest fears in the simplest words. She shows how the attempt to maintain the fiction, to strive to convert happy fiction into reality, is what keeps humanity going through the dark ages of the past and present.
"Shhh, Sander, you have to be quiet now.
We're sitting in the living room.
We'll be up late.
Don't be scared.
The light's on.
You'll hear our voices.
And we wont go to bed before you sleep."
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