Strindberg / Annandreas The Red Room

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-91-8080-472-1
Verlag: BoD - Books on Demand
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 224 Seiten

"I'll tell you what, Ygberg, I believe one has to be very unscrupulous if one wants to get on in the world." That's how The Red Room could be summarised through one of its sentences. Through a number of cultural workers Strindberg asks the question of how life should be lived. As a young person, you can pretend to be an ardent idealist; as an older, somewhat sober person, you can come to realise that what you from the beginning thought to be idealistic may not really be. Through its straightforward language The Red Room (1879) is often called the first modern novel in Swedish. It constitutes a representation of Stockholm in the 1870s and is known for its depictions of the urban environment as well as its satire. The book is an attempt to stand by the lower classes by humorously attacking the hypocrisy of the higher classes. The Red Room was described as dirt by contemporary critics, but it was an immediate success. This edition of The Red Room constitutes the first novel in the cluster text style, which could be 20 percent better than ordinary texts, and is intended to function as a kind of survey for how we look at text, reading and book design. This book, in Swedish, was made as an entry for Svensk bokkonst, which every year rewards good examples of book design. The winners get to participate in Stiftung Buchkunt's Best Book Design from all over the World which in German is called Schönste Bücher aus aller Welt. This difference captures an important gap. Book design has long been about designing beautiful books. Now we'll see how Svensk bokkonst and possibly Stiftung Buchkunst see this. What do you think? Should we read cluster texts? You will get an answer to that question by reading this edition of The Red Room. PLEASE NOTE that the text in this book, i.e. cluster text, cannot be reflown and therefore needs to be read on tablets/screens at least 13 centimetres wide, which can handle line lengths of 95 characters (i.e. smaller screens are not suitable).

Johan August Strindberg, born January 22, 1849, in Stockholm, died May 14, 1912, in Stockholm, was a Swedish writer. For four decades, Strindberg was a prominent figure in literary circles. He was controversial and frequently involved in personal conflicts. Among his works are several novels, short stories and dramas that are considered classics in Swedish literature, and he is considered one of Sweden's most important writers. Internationally, however, he is primarily known as a playwright.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Strindberg, August

Annandreas

Leseproben

FIRST
A bird’s-eye view of Stockholm
It was an evening in the beginning of May. The little garden on »Moses Height«, on the south side of the town had not yet been thrown open to the public, and the flower-beds were still unturned. The snowdrops had worked through the accumulations of last year’s dead leaves, and were on the point of closing their short career and making room for the crocuses which had found shelter under a barren pear tree; the elder was waiting for a southerly wind before bursting into bloom, but the tightly closed buds of the limes still offered cover for love-making to the chaffinches, busily employed in building their lichen-covered nests between trunk and branch. No human foot had trod the gravel paths since last winter’s snow had melted, and the free and easy life of beasts and flowers was left undisturbed. The sparrows industriously collected all manner of rubbish, and stowed it away under the tiles of the Navigation School. They burdened themselves with scraps of the rocket-cases of last autumn’s fireworks, and picked the straw covers off the young trees, transplanted from the nursery in the Deer Park only a year ago – nothing escaped them. They discovered shreds of muslin in the summer arbours; the splintered leg of a seat supplied them with tufts of hair left on the battlefield by dogs which had not been fighting there since Josephine’s day. What a life it was! The sun was standing over the Liljeholm, throwing sheaves of rays towards the east; they pierced the columns of smoke of Bergsund, flashed across the Riddarfjärd, climbed to the cross of the Riddarholms church, flung themselves on to the steep roof of the German church opposite, toyed with the bunting displayed by the boats on the pontoon bridge, sparkled in the windows of the chief custom-house, illuminated the woods of the Liding Island, and died away in a rosy cloud far, far away in the distance where the sea was. And from thence the wind came and travelled back by the same way, over Vaxholm, past the fortress, past the custom-house and along the Sikla Island, forcing its way in behind the Hästarholm, glancing at the summer resorts; then out again and on, on to the hospital Daniken; there it took fright and dashed away in a headlong career along the southern shore, noticed the smell of coal, tar and fish-oil, came dead against the city quay, rushed up to Moses Height, swept into the garden and buffeted against a wall. The wall was opened by a maid-servant, who, at the very moment, was engaged in peeling off the paper pasted over the chinks of the double windows; a terrible smell of dripping, beer dregs, pine needles, and sawdust poured out and was carried away by the wind, while the maid stood breathing the fresh air through her nostrils. It plucked the cotton-wool, strewn with barberry berries, tinsel and rose leaves, from the space between the windows and danced it along the paths, joined by sparrows and chaffinches who saw here the solution of the greater part of their housing problem. Meanwhile, the maid continued her work at the double windows; in a few minutes the door leading from the restaurant stood open, and a man, well but plainly dressed, stepped out into the garden. There was nothing striking about his face beyond a slight expression of care and worry which disappeared as soon as he had emerged from the stuffy room and caught sight of the wide horizon. He turned to the side from whence the wind came, opened his overcoat, and repeatedly drew a deep breath which seemed to relieve his heart and lungs. Then he began to stroll up and down the barrier which separated the garden from the cliffs in the direction of the sea. Far below him lay the noisy, reawakening town; the steam cranes whirred in the harbour, the iron bars rattled in the iron weighing machine, the whistles of the lock-keepers shrilled, the steamers at the pontoon bridge smoked, the omnibuses rumbled over the uneven paving-stones; noise and uproar in the fish market, sails and flags on the water outside; the screams of the sea-gulls, bugle-calls from the dockyard, the turning out of the guard, the clattering of the wooden shoes of the working-men – all this produced an impression of life and bustle, which seemed to rouse the young man’s energy; his face assumed an expression of defiance, cheerfulness and resolution, and as he leaned over the barrier and looked at the town below, he seemed to be watching an enemy; his nostrils expanded, his eyes flashed, and he raised his clenched fist as if he were challenging or threatening the poor town. The bells of St Catherine’s chimed seven; the splenetic treble of St Mary’s seconded; the basses of the great church, and the German church joined in, and soon the air was vibrating with the sound made by the seven bells of the town; then one after the other relapsed into silence, until far away in the distance only the last one of them could be heard singing its peaceful evensong; it had a higher note, a purer tone and a quicker tempo than the others – yes, it had! He listened and wondered whence the sound came, for it seemed to stir up vague memories in him. All of a sudden his face relaxed and his features expressed the misery of a forsaken child. And he was forsaken; his father and mother were lying in the churchyard of St Clara’s, from whence the bell could still be heard; and he was a child; he still believed in everything, truth and fairy tales alike. The bell of St Clara’s was silent, and the sound of footsteps on the gravel path roused him from his reverie. A short man with side-whiskers came towards him from the verandah; he wore spectacles, apparently more for the sake of protecting his glances than his eyes, and his malicious mouth was generally twisted into a kindly, almost benevolent, expression. He was dressed in a neat overcoat with defective buttons, a somewhat battered hat, and trousers hoisted at half-mast. His walk indicated assurance as well as timidity. His whole appearance was so indefinite that it was impossible to guess at his age or social position. He might just as well have been an artisan as a government official; his age was anything between twenty-nine and forty-five years. He was obviously flattered to find himself in the company of the man whom he had come to meet, for he raised his bulging hat with unusual ceremony and smiled his kindliest smile. – I hope you haven’t been waiting, assessor? – Not for a second; it’s only just struck seven. Thank you for coming. I must confess that this meeting is of the greatest importance to me; I might almost say it concerns my whole future, Mr Struve. – Bless me! Do you mean it? Mr Struve blinked; he had come to drink a glass of toddy and was very little inclined for a serious conversation. He had his reasons for that. – We shall be more undisturbed if we have our toddy outside, if you don’t mind, continued the assessor. Mr Struve stroked his right whisker, put his hat carefully on his head and thanked the assessor for his invitation; but he looked uneasy. – To begin with, I must ask you to drop the assessor, began the young man. I’ve never been more than a regular assistant, and I cease to be even that from today; I’m Mr Falk, nothing else. – What? Mr Struve looked as if he had lost a distinguished friend, but he kept his temper. – You’re a man with liberal tendencies … Mr Struve tried to explain himself, but Falk continued: – I asked you to meet me here in your character of contributor to the liberal Red Cap. – Good heavens! I’m such a very unimportant contributor … – I’ve read your thundering articles on the working man’s question, and all other questions which nearly concern us. We’re in the year three, in Roman figures, for it is now the third year of the new Parliament, and soon our hopes will have become realities. I’ve read your excellent biographies of our leading politicians in the Peasant’s Friend, the lives of those men of the people, who have at last been allowed to voice what oppressed them for so long; you’re a man of progress and I’ve a great respect for you. Struve, whose eyes had grown dull instead of kindling at the fervent words, seized with pleasure the proffered safety-valve. – I must admit, he said eagerly, that I’m immensely pleased to find myself appreciated by a young and – I must say it – excellent man like you, assessor; but, on the other hand, why talk of such grave, not to say sad things, when we’re sitting here, in the lap of nature, on the first day of spring, while all the buds are bursting and the sun is pouring his warmth on the whole creation! Let’s snap our fingers at care and drink our glass in peace. Excuse me – I believe I’m your senior – and – I venture – to propose therefore … Falk, who like a flint had gone out in search of steel, realised that he had struck wood. He accepted the proposal without eagerness. And the new brothers sat side by side, and all they had to tell each other was the disappointment expressed in their faces. – I mentioned a little while ago, Falk resumed, that I’ve broken today with my past life and thrown up my career as a government employé. I’ll only add that I intend taking up literature. – Literature? Good Heavens! Why? Oh, but that is a pity! – It isn’t; but I want you to tell me how to set about finding work. – H’m! That’s...