(no subject)

Caught up with Katrine today, she's back in town for the summer. I always love it when our lives collide for a bit. We have a shared history of three school years, are politically aligned, share an interest in reading and culture, we both savour what we can. Shared history sustains friendships only so long, you need some other glue. I can't wait to go clubbing with her again. We are such mean drunks together, and it is so fun! Last time we ended up at a worn-down rocker haunt, where all Oslo natives take their first, underaged steps on the pub scene. The drinks are cheap, the toilets notorious. And we threw our legs on the table, leaned back and floated. Two girls on killer heels and too much vodka.

I wonder how I would find it sober? Best not to know.

Anna Karenin – I prescribe to the Nabokov spelling in English, besides it makes more sense translation-wise – is a terrible chore to read. While I know it's not as bad as other Russian works, there is a bit too much. Tolstoy is a bit too thorough. I enjoy the characters, the flaming emotions, the grand gestures. They even pick mushrooms! The translation is not spectacular, either. I can taste the Russian in the back; the Norwegian reads like a faded copy. I picked my way through a few sentences in a Russian edition, which was much better. It is better than War and Peace, of which I read two pages a few days ago and am now at page 266.

(Yes, I really am listening to You Can Call Me Al, I have no idea why. Blame random lists on spotify.)

(no subject)

Caught up with Katrine today, she's back in town for the summer. I always love it when our lives collide for a bit. We have a shared history of three school years, are politically aligned, share an interest in reading and culture, we both savour what we can. Shared history sustains friendships only so long, you need some other glue. I can't wait to go clubbing with her again. We are such mean drunks together, and it is so fun! Last time we ended up at a worn-down rocker haunt, where all Oslo natives take their first, underaged steps on the pub scene. The drinks are cheap, the toilets notorious. And we threw our legs on the table, leaned back and floated. Two girls on killer heels and too much vodka.

I wonder how I would find it sober? Best not to know.

Anna Karenin – I prescribe to the Nabokov spelling in English, besides it makes more sense translation-wise – is a terrible chore to read. While I know it's not as bad as other Russian works, there is a bit too much. Tolstoy is a bit too thorough. I enjoy the characters, the flaming emotions, the grand gestures. They even pick mushrooms! The translation is not spectacular, either. I can taste the Russian in the back; the Norwegian reads like a faded copy. I picked my way through a few sentences in a Russian edition, which was much better. It is better than War and Peace, of which I read two pages a few days ago and am now at page 266.

(Yes, I really am listening to You Can Call Me Al, I have no idea why. Blame random lists on spotify.)