Category Archives: Translation

The Legend of Sally Jones

This is all about where you belong. It needn’t be the place you were born, although you will probably always miss it, while still being happy – or not – somewhere else.

Serendipity – and Pushkin Press – brought me Sally Jones, the ‘prequel’ to Jakob Wegelius’ The Murderer’s Ape. It’s not, really. But for those of us who came to Sally Jones in her second book, it will feel like a prequel. For the English language market it is a new book, just published, translated by Peter Graves. The Swedes had the original ten years ago, awarding it prizes.

Jakob Wegelius, The Legend of Sally Jones

Jakob Wegelius did all the illustrations for his recent novel, but here he has really excelled. The Legend of Sally Jones is picture book; each page a work of art. Especially the back cover is gorgeous. And the story is lovely and really tugs at your heartstrings. Now we know what made Sally Jones who she is, and why she is so loyal to her friend the Chief.

Because all through The Murderer’s Ape you have to take it on trust that he deserves all the love Sally Jones shows as she searches for a way to prove he’s no murderer. When you’ve read The Legend of Sally Jones you know.

Sally Jones met some quite bad people when she grew up, but also a few lovely ones. Even her worst humans proved useful as they taught her some of the many skills she later on puts to good use. If you want your gorilla to be your slave, don’t teach them to drive.

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Christmas comes to Moominvalley

It is rather sweet. Even people who know nothing about Christmas, can get it right, completely by accident. In this case the people are the Moomin family. They hibernate, so tend not to be awake or aware of Christmas, unlike their friends and neighbours. But this time the Hemulen comes and wakes them up, because he’s fed up with all the preparations for Christmas.

Aren’t we all?

But knowing nothing, the poor Moomins are alarmed at first, worrying about this unknown monster coming for them. It needs a tree. The tree needs to be dressed. It needs food. And on top of that it requires presents.

Christmas comes to Moominvalley

Were it not for a tiny, shy creature drawn to their house by the kindness of Moominmamma, they’d know very little. With its help, they find pretty things to put on the tree, and they wrap presents, and Moominmamma gets busy in the kitchen.

After all that they do the most sensible thing of all and go back to bed.


I seem to know the story from a long time ago. However, it has been ‘adapted from the Tove Jansson classic,’ with words by Alex Haridi and Cecilia Davidsson – translated by A A Prime – and illustrations by Filippa Widlund. So I’m not sure what it is I remember.

But it is a lovely story, with pretty pictures, and who needs a star at the top of the tree when you can have a rose?

Doctoring on

Graduation, McEwan Hall

Monday was exhausting! I got out of bed well before my normal comfort time, so I could be outside the McEwan Hall in Edinburgh by ten. The Resident IT Consultant and I were meeting Son and Dodo to receive our tickets for the morning’s graduation ceremony. I had to to and fro a bit with my bag and got the elderly confused witch treatment from a kind usher who’d probably seen it all before.

So with a boiled egg in my pocket, I climbed all those stairs, going round and round in a spiral. But being early, I found a seat I liked. Narrow seats, though. You have to be quite friendly with the person you sit next to.

Graduation, McEwan Hall

Anyway, a mere eleven years after arriving in Edinburgh, Son graduated for the third time, and was hit – sorry, tapped – on the head with John Knox’s breeches, and got to shake the hand of the Vice-Chancellor. By that time I’d almost nodded off, and was lucky to come to and realise a group of red-trimmed doctoral gowns were standing ready to go. I got my camera out, but as expected the results were so dreadful that I have again resorted to theft on social media. (I’m hoping most of the photos belong to Dodo. Pardon, I mean Dr Dodo.)

Graduation, McEwan Hall

Graduation McEwan Hall

Afterwards I went downstairs and was confused in front of the same usher, who remembered me from before. I’m very memorable.

Graduation, McEwan Hall - Son with supervisors

Then it was photos and chatting outside, and shaking the hands of all three of Dr Son’s supervisors. Not just the one for him. But we agreed we’d all done a great job* getting here, and I don’t just have the train journey in mind. Was also introduced to someone from Borås, which doesn’t happen all that often. (Not since early October, anyway.)

Graduation, McEwan Hall

When we’d admired each other enough, Drs Dodo and Son marched off and the Resident IT Consultant and I tried to keep pace with them, as we weren’t quite certain where lunch was to be found. (Söderbergs, a few minutes away.)

After many carbohydrates had been consumed, some of them vividly green, we walked back to Son’s university HQ for some red wine, and water, and crisps, and more chatting and shaking of – occasionally the same – hands.

And then the two oldies staggered home.

*I have read the thesis. It is actually quite good, if I say so myself. Interesting, and more readable than many such things. (Tracing the Transmission of Scandinavian Literature to the UK: 1917-2017.) Someone else, not related to him, or us, also said it wasn’t bad.

If you want to make it easy for yourself, a short version can be found in this talk in Lund earlier this year. After the first minute or so, it’s even in English.

Did I know that?

No, generally not. Or at least, I didn’t remember it. Not even to the extent that when it got mentioned again (really?) there was some flutter of recognition.

Anyway.

I asked Son if he saw any Nobel laureates at the Gothenburg Book Fair. He didn’t. I only asked because the Resident IT Consultant and I spent a recent afternoon getting rid of books. We got to one by Orhan Pamuk, and I checked it for a signature. Nope. ‘He signed a book?’ ‘Yes, we kept coming across him everywhere for a couple of years,’ I said. And then I spied another Pamuk book, which was allowed to stay, but I wanted to know if the imagined signature was in that one. It was.

I asked Son if he saw any archbishops. He didn’t. But he did add that he was annoyed at having had to miss an event with K G Hammar, seeing as he’d translated something that the emeritus archbishop had written about Dag Hammarskjöld. ‘I didn’t know that.’ ‘Yes, you did,’ he said. (I later asked the Resident IT Consultant what he knew. He knew nothing.)

Son did see, and have a drink with, Andreas Norman, whose thrillers he has translated. Seems the first one, Into a Raging Blaze, is – potentially – very close to becoming a television series. Move over The Killing, The Bridge!

I have also had reports back from School Friend, who was enthusiastic about her two events – with Stina Wollter, and Anna and Ola Rosling – and Pippi, who apparently met an author whose mother she used to play with when they were children. So, as I said, it’s a small country.

A brand new and fresh Gothenburg Book Fair

This time it’s Son’s turn to haunt the Gothenburg Book Fair. Thirteen years after he and I first went – because I had a silly brainwave – we have both developed into people who can use this gathering more professionally.

And, I don’t know many people. I mean, over there, still, after all these years. So the accidental bumping into them shouldn’t happen so much, except it does a bit, because it’s a small country and a big fair.

But online? I was intrigued earlier in the summer when the fair’s organisers sent out yet another jolly email about booking in time and all that stuff. They had chosen a couple of photographs to illustrate quite how good a time you will have there if you go.

bok o bibliotek

And I thought ‘that looks a little like Motala Boy’ and then, seeing the person next to him, ‘that looks a lot like his wife, Once New Librarian.’ So there they were, tucking into their lunch and studying the map of the fair, to see where to go next.

It is a small world, even if a librarian was involved, and her library assistant other half. I imagine Son might bump into them. Or Pizzabella, School Friend, or his Cousin once removed. And obviously all the people he has arranged to meet for professional reasons.

I don’t envy him the exhaustion that is about to set in. Other than that, it will be fun!

The Swedish Crime Wave

‘Nu sätter vi igång, eller hur?’ said Jacky Collins to her three charges Christoffer Carlsson, Johana Gustawsson and Will Dean. They all agreed to some ‘sätting igång’ and did so to a full to bursting Allan Park South Church where people were standing in the aisles.

Christoffer Carlsson books

First she wanted to know about Will Dean’s building a cottage made of wood, in a Swedish forest, somewhere ‘north’ of Gothenburg, so he went ahead and ruined her vision of a strong man with an axe. It was more flatpack, and he mainly supervised the build courtesy of that airline that flies people places for £10. But at least Will and his Swedish wife got out of their tiny London flat.

Will Dean

You will already have gathered not all Jacky’s Swedes were Swedish.

Johana Gustawsson, who is French, and maybe a little Spanish, blames everything on her Swedish husband, as well she should. After all, a man who eats flat pieces of bread with cheese on, squeezing cod roe paste from a tube on top of it all, for breakfast, has a lot to answer for. (It’s probably only my vivid imagination which had him dunk this in his coffee.) The Resident IT Consultant listened wide-eyed to this tale, as not even his extensive Swedish experience ever went this far.

Christoffer Carlsson

Christoffer Carlsson who comes from the same town as Roxette, nevertheless feels it’s natural to write about Stockholm, which is not the same as Halmstad. He didn’t get the promised ABBA number, which is just as well, since he’s far too young for them. Christoffer likes people; is interested in them, even. And he interviews offenders for a living.

Then there was the tale about his childhood friend’s dad who, ahem, created illegal alcoholic drinks at home in the kitchen, when the local policeman called. (He obviously only wanted to buy some.)

Will introduced us to Tuva Moodysson, his deaf journalist detective. After his first horrible book, it is fun writing about Tuva. Johana explained that she needed a Canadian character so that they could speak both English and French. Her women characters really have opinions. Christoffer also has some ‘bad’ early books, which ‘unfortunately’ have been published. He wanted to write about friendship, and only reluctantly made one of his characters a policeman.

Christoffer Carlsson, Johana Gustawsson and Will Dean

It seems Will is very keen on ‘sweeties’ and on hearing this Johana emptied out her handbag of a pile of sweets, whereas Christoffer only had cigarettes to offer.

There is folklore in Will’s books; he can’t leave the forest’s mushrooms and bears and elks alone, and his brother-in-law has met a troll… Of course he has. Similarly, Johana discovered a book about Jack the Ripper which placed one of his victims in Falkenberg, where her Kalles Kaviar-eating husband is from. So that had to become a crime novel. And Christoffer might write more crime after his Leo Junker series, but his next book is set very near his parents’ house outside Halmstad, and it’s a ‘very good book.’

Johana Gustawsson

Johana had much to say about us Swedes, and not just on the cod roe issue, but the Scandi hugs, where people hug those they meet for the first time. Having to take your beautifully chosen shoes off indoors, ruining the effect of your beautiful dress – [she] ‘needs to wear her effing shoes!’ – and the question whether Swedes have vegetables (mothers always worry, don’t they?). Then there is ‘lagom,’ and maybe she has said too much, but this was her first weekend away from her young children.

This was a hard act to follow, and Will sensibly didn’t try. It seems his mother-in-law doesn’t like his books… Too negative, they are. Tuva hates the woods. (I’m right with you, dear.) On a brighter note, a deaf member of the audience complimented Will on getting Tuva’s deafness spot-on.

Finally, Christoffer was permitted to have his say, and he reckons that all Swedish crime writers know each other, read each other’s books and they all live in Bromma. They all write the same. So these two fake Swedes are bringing some much needed outside perspective into all this.

Christoffer Carlsson, Johana Gustawsson and Will Dean

By now we’d over-run by ten minutes and the audience wanted more, but we still had to finish. Long and slow queues to chat to the three meant that we were in danger of never leaving, and with the audience for the next event queueing outside, Christoffer was the last man standing and practically had to be kicked out, where he duly lit a cigarette…

It’s tough being popular, isn’t it?

Our truly multilingual chair Jacky chatted in Spanish, as well as Swedish, and even some English, and before departing she wished me ‘hasta luego.’ I can’t wait.

The Invisible Man From Salem

Except I read it in the original, so it’s really Den Osynlige Mannen Från Salem. But at least this way you know that you, too, can access Christoffer Carlsson’s award-winning first crime novel featuring Leo Junker. Because I think you might want to.

Admittedly, I hate the kind of society he’s writing about, but firmly believe that this is what people in other countries find so charming about Swedish noir. Life is dark and dismal, but because it’s not your dark and dismal, it’s all right.

This is an adult crime novel, but with enough flashbacks to Leo’s youth in a concrete-covered Stockholm suburb in the mid-1990s, that it can almost double as YA. Almost.

Christoffer Carlsson, Den Osynlige Mannen Från Salem

Leo has been relieved of his police badge after some dubious goings-on on Gotland. Not his fault, but a scapegoat was needed. And now a woman has been murdered in the flat below his, and he feels he could do with something to occupy himself with, in his half-drugged, sad state. And then it turns out it’s all much closer to home than he thought.

Maybe something to do with his friends from sixth form college? The police don’t like him much, nor do people from his past private life. It’s been tough, and the drugs are just about understandable.

There are no charming vicarages here. Very little that is nice at all, in fact. There is so little hope, even. I was glad I’d got out. Despite this being set 30 years after I was that age, it felt as if nothing had changed. I could have gone to that school. Those teenagers could have been my classmates.

It’s awful.

And it’s also very well written, and after a while I sort of liked Leo. A little. When I reached the end I did what any sane person would do and started on the attached sample chapter for the second book. Apart from having other books to read too, there is the slight conundrum of me only having the fourth, and last, book to hand. On Christoffer’s advice.

What to do?

(There are more than a few nods to Sjöwall & Wahlöö’s Martin Beck series.)