nirinia: (xkcd)
Hemingway wrote stories in only six words, mini short stories in a sense. "For sale: baby shoes, never used." It was a prompt in a writing community, and I've been toying with 6 word stories since. They're wonderful ways of practicing the 'show, don't tell' mantra (which I've a newly gleamed understanding off, gained partially from Shklovky's ideas about defamiliarisation and reading a lot of really bad fiction). And they're pieces I have the heart and time to finish. Though mine tend to have eight words. Not using colons and semi-colons is so difficult.

They remind me of William Carlos Williams' poetry: images and short glimpses you can do what you will with. It's not so much what the writer intended, but what the reader sees (Fuck, I sound like Stanley Fish: there is no text, there are only readers).

I'm evidently not dead yet. I'm just buried in literary theory. Which has crystallized my need to get away from this hornet's nest of a field. I am a philologist at heart, and I will always be, but I cannot work with it. Had I not tried I would likely always have regretted it, and I would have missed this experience. While it has not been what I wanted, it turned out to be edifying. Though I will always long to study at Oxford. Perhaps I will, once. When I am old and grey, and finally have time.

Drinking coffee now, trying not to spill all over the Greenblatt text. He's one of the only theorists I can stomach. So many of them are bad writers, or terribly vague. They use stilted jargon to hide bad reasoning, or complete lack of reasoning (Foucault, I want to strangle you). I find it heartening that a Norwegian intellectual agrees, Jon Elster caused an uproar a few years back for calling Kristeva, Foucault, Derrida (and a good deal of others) notorious charlatans. Elster claims most of their works are based on faulty abstractions, and that they lack proper reasoning. I think he even went so far as to call it 'bad quasi-philosophy'. I'm tempted to mail him and tell him just how refreshing I find that view, or quote him on my exam. (Though that would get me failed, they do not call for critique beyond correction of misspelled names.) I met him briefly in Ebbe's funeral, and my last name would likely go down well.

Elster actually closes any books that voices sympathy towards any of these theorists. He claims all sensible people agree with him, and that life is too short to read drivel. I think I'll copy that. I will read the originals, or anything critical, but nothing else. Life really is too short to read useless literary theorists.

The problem about it all is that most of literary theory (perhaps excepted narratology), is based on these abstractions. Either through the works of structuralists and formalists directly, or by way of representation theory. If you remove these foundations, there is no raison d'être left for the literary sciences.

But I'll get back to my sortie later. I'm writing a suicide letter (quite harmless, really, but it is a literary studies suicide). I just don't quite know where I want to address it. [I can't help include my cheesiest tag ever: 'Alexandra's sortie', there is no such thing as too much drama. And I am part Russian, after all.]
nirinia: (xkcd)
Hemingway wrote stories in only six words, mini short stories in a sense. "For sale: baby shoes, never used." It was a prompt in a writing community, and I've been toying with 6 word stories since. They're wonderful ways of practicing the 'show, don't tell' mantra (which I've a newly gleamed understanding off, gained partially from Shklovky's ideas about defamiliarisation and reading a lot of really bad fiction). And they're pieces I have the heart and time to finish. Though mine tend to have eight words. Not using colons and semi-colons is so difficult.

They remind me of William Carlos Williams' poetry: images and short glimpses you can do what you will with. It's not so much what the writer intended, but what the reader sees (Fuck, I sound like Stanley Fish: there is no text, there are only readers).

I'm evidently not dead yet. I'm just buried in literary theory. Which has crystallized my need to get away from this hornet's nest of a field. I am a philologist at heart, and I will always be, but I cannot work with it. Had I not tried I would likely always have regretted it, and I would have missed this experience. While it has not been what I wanted, it turned out to be edifying. Though I will always long to study at Oxford. Perhaps I will, once. When I am old and grey, and finally have time.

Drinking coffee now, trying not to spill all over the Greenblatt text. He's one of the only theorists I can stomach. So many of them are bad writers, or terribly vague. They use stilted jargon to hide bad reasoning, or complete lack of reasoning (Foucault, I want to strangle you). I find it heartening that a Norwegian intellectual agrees, Jon Elster caused an uproar a few years back for calling Kristeva, Foucault, Derrida (and a good deal of others) notorious charlatans. Elster claims most of their works are based on faulty abstractions, and that they lack proper reasoning. I think he even went so far as to call it 'bad quasi-philosophy'. I'm tempted to mail him and tell him just how refreshing I find that view, or quote him on my exam. (Though that would get me failed, they do not call for critique beyond correction of misspelled names.) I met him briefly in Ebbe's funeral, and my last name would likely go down well.

Elster actually closes any books that voices sympathy towards any of these theorists. He claims all sensible people agree with him, and that life is too short to read drivel. I think I'll copy that. I will read the originals, or anything critical, but nothing else. Life really is too short to read useless literary theorists.

The problem about it all is that most of literary theory (perhaps excepted narratology), is based on these abstractions. Either through the works of structuralists and formalists directly, or by way of representation theory. If you remove these foundations, there is no raison d'être left for the literary sciences.

But I'll get back to my sortie later. I'm writing a suicide letter (quite harmless, really, but it is a literary studies suicide). I just don't quite know where I want to address it. [I can't help include my cheesiest tag ever: 'Alexandra's sortie', there is no such thing as too much drama. And I am part Russian, after all.]
nirinia: (Default)
Preoccupied by London looming in the horizon of the week. Planning outfits, things to do, where to go, what to read, think, breathe. We leave on Saturday and return on Wedensday. I'm totally broke and should not be going at all, but fuck that. I cannot wait to stuff my face in Chinatown and Camden. And go shoe-hunting. Any fabulous suggestions are very welcome, I'm sort of at a loss about what to show two near-novice Londoners.

My Russian is so craptastic there aren't words. But I'm getting there, I hope. It has to have gotten somewhere by november 20th.

And, what do you know, I wrote something on the tube on the way home a week ago. The weather was perfect autumn, and I just couldn't help it, not even the bad T.S. Eliot allusion:

Autumn is summer’s glasses: the veil of heat removed, colours crisper, clearer, more alive. The wind returns and rustles leaves and people and hair. Puddles freeze and melt, every morning, evening, afternoon. I can breathe again, without gulping and swallowing air (no, it’s not asthma, the doctor assures me it is not. Cannot be, actually, not possibly. Not with values like that. Don’t worry, just breathe normally, you’ll be fine.).
nirinia: (Default)
Preoccupied by London looming in the horizon of the week. Planning outfits, things to do, where to go, what to read, think, breathe. We leave on Saturday and return on Wedensday. I'm totally broke and should not be going at all, but fuck that. I cannot wait to stuff my face in Chinatown and Camden. And go shoe-hunting. Any fabulous suggestions are very welcome, I'm sort of at a loss about what to show two near-novice Londoners.

My Russian is so craptastic there aren't words. But I'm getting there, I hope. It has to have gotten somewhere by november 20th.

And, what do you know, I wrote something on the tube on the way home a week ago. The weather was perfect autumn, and I just couldn't help it, not even the bad T.S. Eliot allusion:

Autumn is summer’s glasses: the veil of heat removed, colours crisper, clearer, more alive. The wind returns and rustles leaves and people and hair. Puddles freeze and melt, every morning, evening, afternoon. I can breathe again, without gulping and swallowing air (no, it’s not asthma, the doctor assures me it is not. Cannot be, actually, not possibly. Not with values like that. Don’t worry, just breathe normally, you’ll be fine.).
nirinia: (Default)
Why is it, that when I do LJ, I am always procrastinating? Is it the nature of the friends page that makes it so totally unavoidable when I have things to avoid?

London is looking less and less likely, fuck it all. I need to contain my expectations, or I will end up furious and disappointed. Which leads to nothing good, no concentration, decapitations left and right.

(You've also just experienced what teachers and lecturers alike have been hounding me for for years: my excessive use of punctuation. The commas are there for a reason, you do not leave them out, they are important. It is a matter of style and I get to direct how you read what I write. Commas and semicolons are also the only way of getting my non-stop sentences pronouncable.)

Right, what I was really going to write, is this: I think I have come to the bottom of my postmodern project. What the internet has done is create a connection, and it created serious hypertextuality. Now all I need to do is spend a few weeks in the library, reading up on what everyone else has said about it and make lists of why, exactly, they're wrong. Perhaps this is the way I will change the world, not by cracking open chests and holding hearts, but by wrecking literature.
nirinia: (Default)
Why is it, that when I do LJ, I am always procrastinating? Is it the nature of the friends page that makes it so totally unavoidable when I have things to avoid?

London is looking less and less likely, fuck it all. I need to contain my expectations, or I will end up furious and disappointed. Which leads to nothing good, no concentration, decapitations left and right.

(You've also just experienced what teachers and lecturers alike have been hounding me for for years: my excessive use of punctuation. The commas are there for a reason, you do not leave them out, they are important. It is a matter of style and I get to direct how you read what I write. Commas and semicolons are also the only way of getting my non-stop sentences pronouncable.)

Right, what I was really going to write, is this: I think I have come to the bottom of my postmodern project. What the internet has done is create a connection, and it created serious hypertextuality. Now all I need to do is spend a few weeks in the library, reading up on what everyone else has said about it and make lists of why, exactly, they're wrong. Perhaps this is the way I will change the world, not by cracking open chests and holding hearts, but by wrecking literature.
nirinia: (Default)
Wood's How Fiction Works must be an utterly delicious piece of critique, and I want it. Oh, do I want it! He seems to have an ongoing love affair with free indirect style, much as I do. I think I could go mad buying books on free indirect style. It makes me bouncy with glee.


Mother and I are going to London the 2-5 of January next year. More bouncy, more London and more sale. Yum.
nirinia: (Default)
Wood's How Fiction Works must be an utterly delicious piece of critique, and I want it. Oh, do I want it! He seems to have an ongoing love affair with free indirect style, much as I do. I think I could go mad buying books on free indirect style. It makes me bouncy with glee.


Mother and I are going to London the 2-5 of January next year. More bouncy, more London and more sale. Yum.
nirinia: (Default)
I understand the idea of showing, rather than telling. But how the heck do you make that work with free indirect style? It does not work. Blah.
nirinia: (Default)
I understand the idea of showing, rather than telling. But how the heck do you make that work with free indirect style? It does not work. Blah.

Writing

Feb. 6th, 2008 06:19 pm
nirinia: (Default)
He leaves his coat on the chair, the one to his left, where someone just left another coat. And approaches the stage, where someone just put the microphone back into its stand. He reaches out and touches the microphone, the one someone just proclaimed their drunken love of some bartender into. And he opens his mouth, the one the girl in the back would so much like to stick her tongue into.

"I know what the problem with amateur poetry is: they don't know what they're doing. They don't know how to create rhythm, how to write a sonnet; they don't know how to allude; they have no sense of the world, they have no experience; they don't even read poetry other than their own. And, worst of all, they write in English."

Writing

Feb. 6th, 2008 06:19 pm
nirinia: (Default)
He leaves his coat on the chair, the one to his left, where someone just left another coat. And approaches the stage, where someone just put the microphone back into its stand. He reaches out and touches the microphone, the one someone just proclaimed their drunken love of some bartender into. And he opens his mouth, the one the girl in the back would so much like to stick her tongue into.

"I know what the problem with amateur poetry is: they don't know what they're doing. They don't know how to create rhythm, how to write a sonnet; they don't know how to allude; they have no sense of the world, they have no experience; they don't even read poetry other than their own. And, worst of all, they write in English."
nirinia: (tatjana patitz)
I fell upon the collected poems of André Bjerke today, because I could simply not stand the thought of reading Murdoch, and his "Berceuse", "Frelsespike" and "Sonetter til en determinist" ("Sonnets for a Determinist", in bad Alex translation), amongst others. "Berceuse", in particular, left me rather at a loss for words. It is very maudlin, but extremely well-written, and he utilised Norwegian so deftly. I think I might have to invest in a collection of his poetry.

Fictionally, I am slowly retreating to my experiences - scenes, moments, in particular - and prompts. While nothing I write is mind-boggling or very interesting, it is good exercise. And I get to play with my words again. I need to broaden my vocabulary. If I have no English classes to rely on, I shall simply have to resort to breaking out the dictionary and thesarus.
nirinia: (tatjana patitz)
I fell upon the collected poems of André Bjerke today, because I could simply not stand the thought of reading Murdoch, and his "Berceuse", "Frelsespike" and "Sonetter til en determinist" ("Sonnets for a Determinist", in bad Alex translation), amongst others. "Berceuse", in particular, left me rather at a loss for words. It is very maudlin, but extremely well-written, and he utilised Norwegian so deftly. I think I might have to invest in a collection of his poetry.

Fictionally, I am slowly retreating to my experiences - scenes, moments, in particular - and prompts. While nothing I write is mind-boggling or very interesting, it is good exercise. And I get to play with my words again. I need to broaden my vocabulary. If I have no English classes to rely on, I shall simply have to resort to breaking out the dictionary and thesarus.
nirinia: (Default)
However screwed up this will sound, the turns American politics - no scratch that, Bush's politics - are taking, interest me, very much. I envy the ones studying it this fall, there is so much going on! Now, having to consider whether or not the System of Checks and Balances have effect would be exceedingly simple, and the essay begging for a 6. Bush is effectively overruling one of the checks on the executive. Not only does Congress no longer enforce their right to declare war (the President simply obtains the right to use necessary force, and if he does not, he prances on to use his veto. However week his support in Congress is, two thirds are not against him.), they do nothing when Bush increases Executive power. Impeachment, someone?

And my inner lepidopterist is poking his head out, though not doing much but studying the butterflies speeding around in my stomach, at present. Knowing him, he will proceed sometime on Sunday, when I am safely in Oxford, squealing of delight in my hotel-room, to capture and name them. I shall make him dub one Vladimir, and another Oscar, if not Ernest. The rest he can do with as he pleases.

Two nights in Oxford, one in Stratford-upon-Avon, one in Bath and the final three (or however many it is, I was never any good at maths) in London. With luck, I can be found somewhere having Afternoon Tea next week, smelling of "Lolita Lempicka" and grinning foolishly.

Harry Potter ends tomorrow, it'll be fun. Or so I hope. I have to make up for leaving doggie behind in Norway. I always feel miserable when we leave him at the kennel, he looks so utterly forlorn.

I think my writing is doing a half-hearted jig beyond the grave (imagine Geoffrey Rush, if you will, in Shawn of the Dead, as a zombie-version of the Marquis, screaming "My writing lives!"), and has given me this: We burn the end of our lives. It might be "the ends", but that is, crudely, it. Any grand ideas, anyone? Other than a boring, married, couple, resigning themselves to something or other? I think they might be burning, or tearing, sheet music - some piece by a Russian, that is somehow their lives, or life.

Apropos, I've made a discovery: I think the reason I can't RP for the life of me, is that my characters are no good for continued plots or story-lines that branch in all sort of peculiar directions, they're made for scenes. They do entrances, and they do exits, but they are not there to prance around in settings they were not created for. They are awkward there, and they do not wish to fit in. They fit into their own stories, plots and exits, and they will not participate in those of others, whomever they are. (Not that they are particularly noteworthy. To have exits and prance around, they really need nothing but a name and something to do. Be that stand in the room across from someone entirely insignificant, or say something so relevant it reeks of cliché.)

Lastly, I apologize for the length and the double post.
nirinia: (Default)
However screwed up this will sound, the turns American politics - no scratch that, Bush's politics - are taking, interest me, very much. I envy the ones studying it this fall, there is so much going on! Now, having to consider whether or not the System of Checks and Balances have effect would be exceedingly simple, and the essay begging for a 6. Bush is effectively overruling one of the checks on the executive. Not only does Congress no longer enforce their right to declare war (the President simply obtains the right to use necessary force, and if he does not, he prances on to use his veto. However week his support in Congress is, two thirds are not against him.), they do nothing when Bush increases Executive power. Impeachment, someone?

And my inner lepidopterist is poking his head out, though not doing much but studying the butterflies speeding around in my stomach, at present. Knowing him, he will proceed sometime on Sunday, when I am safely in Oxford, squealing of delight in my hotel-room, to capture and name them. I shall make him dub one Vladimir, and another Oscar, if not Ernest. The rest he can do with as he pleases.

Two nights in Oxford, one in Stratford-upon-Avon, one in Bath and the final three (or however many it is, I was never any good at maths) in London. With luck, I can be found somewhere having Afternoon Tea next week, smelling of "Lolita Lempicka" and grinning foolishly.

Harry Potter ends tomorrow, it'll be fun. Or so I hope. I have to make up for leaving doggie behind in Norway. I always feel miserable when we leave him at the kennel, he looks so utterly forlorn.

I think my writing is doing a half-hearted jig beyond the grave (imagine Geoffrey Rush, if you will, in Shawn of the Dead, as a zombie-version of the Marquis, screaming "My writing lives!"), and has given me this: We burn the end of our lives. It might be "the ends", but that is, crudely, it. Any grand ideas, anyone? Other than a boring, married, couple, resigning themselves to something or other? I think they might be burning, or tearing, sheet music - some piece by a Russian, that is somehow their lives, or life.

Apropos, I've made a discovery: I think the reason I can't RP for the life of me, is that my characters are no good for continued plots or story-lines that branch in all sort of peculiar directions, they're made for scenes. They do entrances, and they do exits, but they are not there to prance around in settings they were not created for. They are awkward there, and they do not wish to fit in. They fit into their own stories, plots and exits, and they will not participate in those of others, whomever they are. (Not that they are particularly noteworthy. To have exits and prance around, they really need nothing but a name and something to do. Be that stand in the room across from someone entirely insignificant, or say something so relevant it reeks of cliché.)

Lastly, I apologize for the length and the double post.
nirinia: (Default)
There are writers, authors, and there are artists. There are those who write only to tell a story, prove a point or institute political havoc, and there are those that care not only for the story, the havoc or the point, but for the means by which it is told/intimated; the language. There are those that deem a day devoted to pondering the placement, addition or removal of a comma well spent, and there are those that publicly admit to grammatical ignorance.

"There is only one school of literature - that of talent." Vladimir Nabokov, the man with the unpronouncable name, and whose intellect I greatly admire.

* "A panda walks into a café. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and fires two shots in the air.
"Why?" asks the confused waiter, as the panda makes towards the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife manual and tosses it over his shoulder.
"I'm a panda," he says, at the door. "Look it up."
The waiter turns to the relevant entry and, sure enough, finds the explanation.
"Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves." **

**Sticklers really should get out more, and I could use a few more books by Truss.

PS. Footnotes really are wonderful fun. And should be used more frequently.



--------
 
On a different note, I've just found out how to say "'l'll attempt to..." in French. Amazing what a bit of reading does for the vocabulary, isn't it? "Je vais essayer de ..." Now all I have to write is half a page on La Suisse, find a picture or two, explain federalism very shortly, and make either a powerpoint or what is popularly called "overheads" or "foils". I'm not looking forward to it. French is never fun when it involves learning it by heart and speaking to the completely uninterested class, and equally incompetent teacher.

And I've a Psychology article to write, another one for Sociology, a PE test, an oral examination in Social-Studies, a History test and an oral English exam. The English exam could prove to be quite fun, all depending on the sensor.

Picked up Burgess' "A Dead Man in Deptford" again, and I'm becoming increasingly convinced he figured out how to "fuck books".
nirinia: (Default)
There are writers, authors, and there are artists. There are those who write only to tell a story, prove a point or institute political havoc, and there are those that care not only for the story, the havoc or the point, but for the means by which it is told/intimated; the language. There are those that deem a day devoted to pondering the placement, addition or removal of a comma well spent, and there are those that publicly admit to grammatical ignorance.

"There is only one school of literature - that of talent." Vladimir Nabokov, the man with the unpronouncable name, and whose intellect I greatly admire.

* "A panda walks into a café. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and fires two shots in the air.
"Why?" asks the confused waiter, as the panda makes towards the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife manual and tosses it over his shoulder.
"I'm a panda," he says, at the door. "Look it up."
The waiter turns to the relevant entry and, sure enough, finds the explanation.
"Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves." **

**Sticklers really should get out more, and I could use a few more books by Truss.

PS. Footnotes really are wonderful fun. And should be used more frequently.



--------
 
On a different note, I've just found out how to say "'l'll attempt to..." in French. Amazing what a bit of reading does for the vocabulary, isn't it? "Je vais essayer de ..." Now all I have to write is half a page on La Suisse, find a picture or two, explain federalism very shortly, and make either a powerpoint or what is popularly called "overheads" or "foils". I'm not looking forward to it. French is never fun when it involves learning it by heart and speaking to the completely uninterested class, and equally incompetent teacher.

And I've a Psychology article to write, another one for Sociology, a PE test, an oral examination in Social-Studies, a History test and an oral English exam. The English exam could prove to be quite fun, all depending on the sensor.

Picked up Burgess' "A Dead Man in Deptford" again, and I'm becoming increasingly convinced he figured out how to "fuck books".
nirinia: (Default)
I've read Nabokov, and now I'm moving on to "Bleak House" and Dickens. "Laughter in the Dark" or "Kamera Obskura" is entertaining at times (particularly when he brings out the "Nabokovian parenthesis"), but too early a work to be truly good - unlike Lolita, he is not yet mature and in power, he has not yet perfected his abilities. I contemplated Sebastian Faulks, Emily Brontë (could do me well, school-wise, but who can be bothered to think tactically these last days of a break?), Pratchett and Tolstoy, but Dickens is the only thing I truly feel like reading. And so, Dickens it is. Until dinner-time, and post dinner it is reading-list ado.

A cold is good for something after all - though this particular one has seen it fit to deprive me of a great chunk of my House-weekend - it would appear (would anyone see it fit to enlighten me about commas in relation to hyphens, perhaps? They bother me, for there should really be one somewhere after "after all"): they justify a whole lot of laying about and doing absolutely nothing. I've finished both the wretched "The Things They Carried" - Nam veterans bothered by PTSD should really get in touch with a psychiatrist, and leave my poor art-form alone - and "Laughter in the Dark" and am starting a new book shortly. All in a few days. A MacBook Pro helps the laying about, too. I love it. Though it's not mine, if you really want to go into tedious detail, I lay claim to it most of the time. Beautiful machine. Yarg.

Nabokov is, by the way, terribly clever; he calls a decadent actress Dorianna Karenina. Ingenious. It is of course, just her stage name, but not only does he convey her as unsophisticated, stupid and vile when answering Rex that she has no idea who her last stage-name originally belonged to, he gives the reader an idea of her without using a single adjective or adverb. And that is a truly splendid art. I wish I could master it half as well as he.

PS. The be-darned "Location" box has a character limit. I'm almost offended. It was supposed to say "Lavishly surrounded by pillows, reclining most languidly in bed". And so does the "Music" box, Bjelleklang's "For meg sjøl ei stønd" plays in the background, from the living-room. The pains of limited freedom!
nirinia: (Default)
I've read Nabokov, and now I'm moving on to "Bleak House" and Dickens. "Laughter in the Dark" or "Kamera Obskura" is entertaining at times (particularly when he brings out the "Nabokovian parenthesis"), but too early a work to be truly good - unlike Lolita, he is not yet mature and in power, he has not yet perfected his abilities. I contemplated Sebastian Faulks, Emily Brontë (could do me well, school-wise, but who can be bothered to think tactically these last days of a break?), Pratchett and Tolstoy, but Dickens is the only thing I truly feel like reading. And so, Dickens it is. Until dinner-time, and post dinner it is reading-list ado.

A cold is good for something after all - though this particular one has seen it fit to deprive me of a great chunk of my House-weekend - it would appear (would anyone see it fit to enlighten me about commas in relation to hyphens, perhaps? They bother me, for there should really be one somewhere after "after all"): they justify a whole lot of laying about and doing absolutely nothing. I've finished both the wretched "The Things They Carried" - Nam veterans bothered by PTSD should really get in touch with a psychiatrist, and leave my poor art-form alone - and "Laughter in the Dark" and am starting a new book shortly. All in a few days. A MacBook Pro helps the laying about, too. I love it. Though it's not mine, if you really want to go into tedious detail, I lay claim to it most of the time. Beautiful machine. Yarg.

Nabokov is, by the way, terribly clever; he calls a decadent actress Dorianna Karenina. Ingenious. It is of course, just her stage name, but not only does he convey her as unsophisticated, stupid and vile when answering Rex that she has no idea who her last stage-name originally belonged to, he gives the reader an idea of her without using a single adjective or adverb. And that is a truly splendid art. I wish I could master it half as well as he.

PS. The be-darned "Location" box has a character limit. I'm almost offended. It was supposed to say "Lavishly surrounded by pillows, reclining most languidly in bed". And so does the "Music" box, Bjelleklang's "For meg sjøl ei stønd" plays in the background, from the living-room. The pains of limited freedom!

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