Books from the Faroe Islands 2022

TRANSLATION & PRODUCTION GRANT

Grants are available for translations and production from Faroese into another language. Grants are only available for translation of a work formerly published by a Faroese publisher.

The application must come from a publisher or translator. If the application is from a publisher, the committee will prioritise publishers who have a contract with a translator. If, on the other hand, the application is from a translator the committee will only accept the application if the translator has a contract with the two publisher involved (original and foreign). However, translators may apply for a grant of DKK 3000 for a sample translation (of at least 8 pages of a chosen work) without any contract.

In its evaluation, the committee will prioritise contemporary works and translations that are made directly from Faroese.

The grant is paid when the book has been published.

The digital application form is available on www.farlit.fo

Contents

Fiction

Katrin Ottarsdóttir: Gentan í verðini 4

Carl Jóhan Jensen: Vatn er ein vátur logi 6

Sólrún Michelsen: Fáur fær tráðin heilt slættan 8

Crime

Jógvan Isaksen: Nivlheimur 10

Eyðun Klakstein: List 12

Short Stories

Hanus Kamban: Tað lovaða landið 14

Poetry

Rannvá Holm Mortensen: Vármjólk 16

Beinir Bergsson: Sólgarðurin 18

Lív Maria Róadóttir Jæger: Eg skrivi á vátt pappír 20

Tóroddur Poulsen: Einki heiti 22

Children & YA

Elin Michelsen: Rimarúmið 24

Dánial Hoydal : Abbi og eg og abbi 26

Rakel Helmsdal: Reiggjan 28

Bárður Oskarsson: Hilbert 30

Non-Fiction

Bergur Rønne Moberg: Poetiske perler af William Heinesen 32

2017-2022 34

Katrin Ottarsdóttir: GENTAN Í VERÐINI

Katrin Ottarsdóttir (1957) is a film director, screenwrit er, poet and author whose debut poetry collection ”Eru koparrør í himmiríki” (2012) was awarded the Faroese M.A. Jacobsen’s Award for fiction in 2013. Ottarsdóttir has published three poetry collections, two short story collections and in 2020 her debut novel ”Gentan í verði ni” was published. All her books have been published in Denmark, and her short story collection ”42 bagatellir” has also been published in Iceland, and her debut poet ry collection was published in the US in 2020.

In her poems Ottarsdóttir pries back the screen of privacy to reveal the dark and dysfunc tional private life of a home where a mentally unstable, drug abusing mother terroriz es her weak husband and ne glects her daughter. In 2016 she released a collection of short stories “Aftanáðrenn” (2016), 13 somewhat surreal short stories about vulnerable characters struggling with inner demons and obsessions which often has fatal consequenses for their re lationship with family, lovers and other people. The stories are psychologically intense of ten with an unexpected twist

at the end. “Gentan í verðini” (2020) is the story about a girl who goes to visit her grandpar ents during the summer holi day in a small town in the Far oe Islands. The grandparent’s household includes the rather eccentric aunt who has not yet moved out, and also, the girl’s godmother who is in charge of the housekeeping but appar ently has a crush on the grand father. The girl is quiet but has an inquisitive mind and great skills in observing and wonder ing about everything, not least the relationships between the four adults in the house.

Title: Gentan í verðini Pages: 346 Publisher: Sprotin

Year of publication: 2020 English sample available Published in Denmark. Rights sold to Hungary

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: GENTAN Í VERÐINI

THE GIRL IN THE WORLD

Translated by Lena Anderssen

She and her aunt stand watching from the living room window as Grandpa makes his way up to the road, one step at a time. Stubbeløse stops right next to him and the friendly bus driver comes out to say hello. Her uncle stands there sweet and shy, waiting until the jolly bus driver finishes telling Grandpa some cock-and-bull story.

Her aunt laughs and whispers, “Look at your uncle! He’s also fond of your godmother, but he hasn’t got a chance. Can’t you see how he’s got that old bachelor look about him, even if he has sailed all over the world and seen women of every colour?”

She shrugs her shoulders, doesn’t really know if she can see that bachelor part about him. If being the shy and quiet type means you are “bachelor-ish”, will she too be “bachelor-ish” when she grows up? Her thoughts get carried away. She doesn’t want to go with them and tells them to bugger off.

Her aunt mutters in her ear, “I bet you your uncle has been with some brown-skinned hussy somewhere and some black giddy thing with a pink tongue. Maybe a yellow one too.”

Her aunt sticks her tongue out as far as it can go, nearly touching her nose with it. She examines her aunt’s tongue and thinks it odd that black women have pink tongues just like her aunt and her. And her uncle and Grandpa. She’s guessing her aunt is just making it up to make the story more exciting. Both Grandma and Mum say that Auntie lies quite often.

“It’s probably easier for your uncle to pay for it and not have to speak a word…only body language. And everybody knows how to kiss,” her aunt laughs and kisses her right on the mouth.

Does Auntie not speak to Uncle either when he gives her money? Maybe Auntie kisses him in a very particular way in return for the money, and that pleases Uncle and he knows that Auntie is happy for the money.

“And I’m pretty sure that the women had to take his clothes off for him in order to get things going.”

She pictures the bare, white, Faroese male body between all those naked female bodies of different colours. She thinks it looks extremely beautiful, but she blushes too. Her aunt breathes on the window and draws a heart with an arrow going through it.

“Your uncle doesn’t know much about white women, doesn’t know how to act towards them…or towards white godmothers with broken hearts.”

What might a broken heart feel like? Is it like when Mom and Dad cry separately? She never plans on hav ing a broken heart. If you never marry, then perhaps you’ll never get one. Her aunt hastily rubs out the heart drawing.

“You’re always asking and thinking so much! No one can answer that many questions. You are a strange little creature, my dear. Careful you don’t get old before your time, the way you go about thinking and thinking. Re member, women have to keep themselves young. Always. Otherwise their dreams die.”

She shrugs. Her aunt has said herself that Godmother isn’t young anymore, but Godmother’s warmest dream still lives. It will live right until Stubbeløse takes off with her for the last time. And up north with the northerners Godmother will definitely have new dreams. Maybe Godmother will also dream that Grandpa will one day come up north in the dark and steal her away out into the bright world. But deep inside Godmother must know that that will never happen.

She grows a little sad after thinking about Grandpa and Godmother. Right now she’d rather think about her aunt and uncle. And she knows that Auntie wouldn’t be pleased if Uncle knew how to act towards white women, at least not with any other woman than her, because then Auntie would have to compete with others for Uncle’s money. And Auntie is probably glad that Uncle doesn’t sail anymore, that way he won’t use more money on all those different coloured women. Does Uncle miss those women? Is that why he wants Godmother? So he doesn’t miss being a sailor embraced in those warm arms out there?

She wondered if lying with others the way Uncle did out in the warm world, where people aren’t white, is the same as being naked together and touching each other’s soft skin. Maybe it’s like when she feels the soft moss or the silky water of the river against her bare bottom and be tween her legs? She also remembers that time in Tórshavn when she and the nice neighbour boy lay rubbing their soft bottoms against each other because his older sister had taught them that that’s what grown-ups did when they wanted to have fun. But if the grown-ups wanted to make babies, then they had to rub hard and for a long time, so she and the neighbour had not done that.

Carl Jóhan Jensen (1957), is one of the most original poets and novelists on the Faroese literary scene and is also a prominent figure in the public debate on culture and politics in the Faroe Islands. Since his début in the early eighties, he has produced eight volumes of poetry, eight novels, a collection of essays, as well as satirical rhymes.

Carl Jóhan Jensen has been awarded the Faroese M.A. Jacob sen Literature Prize three times, and is a five time nominee for the prestigious Nordic Council Liter ature Prize, most recently in 2016 for his novel “Eg síggi teg betur í myrkri”. Jensen’s works have ap peared in literary journals and anthologies in Denmark, Norway, Sweden, the Netherlands, Ger many and the US. His highly ac claimed novel “Ó, søgur um dje

vulsskap” (2005) has been published in Norway and Iceland. In 2017, a collection of his poems was translated to Portugese and published in Brazil. A chapter from his 2005 novel, “Tales of Dev ilry” was featured in the Nordic anthology “The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat” from 2017. His most recent novel, “Vatn er ein vátur logi” is the third novel in a trilogy but all three can be read as standalone novels.

Title: Vatn er ein vátur logi

Sprotin

of

2021

sample

Carl Jóhan Jensen

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: VATN ER EIN VÁTUR LOGI

WATER IS A WET FLAME

English translation by Marita Thomsen

[pause]

…and they too me on...after senior school...at the book shop...had already been there much too long...seven years or so...at least...that was the thing about senior school back then...it was like a rash getting that certificate...nobody would touch you then...not with a sodding bargepole they wouldn’t...and you’d still be hoping like a ninny...and so that was when he walked me home...that evening...

…far too young…

…but it all happened...by chance...I came off the bike...down by the Seamen’s Home...on the hill...must have been slippery...black ice...I don’t know...but there he stood over me...and no one else about...not a soul...that late it was...a weekday night...

...he was on his way to the pictures...at the club...the film was called Dr Love...I remember that...not that I ever saw it...didn’t go to the pictures much anymore...but he talked about that film...and about David Niven...he’d al ready seen it...at least once...was taking English lessons...explained it all in his northern drawl... and then there was that about him...far too young...as I said...his demeanour...he had a way with words...calmed me…he did...and I half dazed...not surprising...had never come off my bike before...but managed to break the fall with my arm...luckily...didn’t hit my head...but in terrible pain...I was...could well have broken something...the way my leg ached...when he helped me up and I tried to put weight on it... he had to take my arm...nothing else for it... and push the bike...all the way home...

…and then we sat...in the sitting room...on the chaiselongue...

…I mean…

…what else was I to do...wouldn’t have made it home on my own...with the bike...not in

that state...I wouldn’t have...and he went on... about this and that...nothing to cause alarm... on the contrary... was from Oyrar, he said, was going to apply to nautical school...but was a sailor just now...

…I didn’t think he looked much like a sailor... god knows...with that build...that slender he was...hair quite long really...black and thick... and then those eyes...motley they were...or how would you say it...not plain coloured...as if he were held together inside by nothing somehow...

…or maybe it was just his age …

…or that he was such a country boy …

…I don’t know…

…but he chattered …as I said…

…hardly stopped for a breath...had been lis tening to Dam’s funeral...the radio broadcast it earlier that day...I hadn’t listened myself... just heard the programme in the distance some where...at the book shop...made me think of that hymn...the one father loved...about the dust...

…that line about the eye of the angel … [pause]

…but then he laid his hand on my knee…

…well, I barely even noticed … …and still it was like one lost oneself...there... on the chaiselongue...

…the hymn echoed in my head …

…before one could think, it was over...

…and I thought, that was that …I thought… as I straightened and buttoned...

Sólrún Michelsen: FÁUR FÆR TRÁÐIN

HEILT SLÆTTAN

Sólrún Michelsen (1948) made her debut in 1994 with the short stories collection for children, ”Argjafrensar”, and has since published several books for children as well as poetry and short stories collections.

Sólrún was awarded the Faro ese Children’s Literature Award in 2002. In 2004 she published her first novel for adults, “Tema við slankum”, for which she was awarded the Faroese M.A. Jacobsen Literary Award. The novel has been published in Denmark, Norway and Germany. Her novel, “Hinumegin er mars”, from 2013 is a gripping novel about a woman caring for her elderly mother with dementia. The novel was nominated for the Nordic Council Literature Prize in 2015 and has been published in Denmark and Norway in 2017. Sólrún’s short story “Some Peo

ple Run in Shorts” was select ed for the Anthology of Nordic short stories “The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat” which was edited by Icelandic poet Sjón and published in 2017 by Push kin Press. The same story was printed in the new literary mag azine Boundless launched on 4 December 2017. In 2019 Sólrún published the first novel “Ein táttur er silvur” in a family saga trilogy of which the second novel “Ein annar er gull” was released in 2020. “ Fáur fær tráðin heilt slættan” is the third and final novel in the family saga trilogy.

Title:

Pages:

Sprotin

Year of publication: 2021 English sample

FEW CAN STRAIGHTEN THE THREAD PERFECTLY

Translated by Lena Anderssen

And now the moment had arrived. It was Saturday, and Andrias had sailed the boys across from school and was arriving with them. The weather was sloppy with sleet and wind and Helena saw they were soaking wet when they came in.

“Look at you.”

She fetches the boys some dry clothes and then goes into the bedroom to see if she could find something for Andrias to wear. Packed away in a large chest were all of Dánjal Petur’s clothes. They were good for sewing things out of when the boys needed something new.

Helena takes a sweater and a pair of pants from the chest, pauses for a moment with the clothes in her hands and lifts them up to her face. Dánjal Petur still lingered in them. The scent of him had not gone. She leaves the room and gives Andrias the clothes. He takes them and goes into the bedroom to change.

Helena can’t help but smile when he comes out again. Andrias is much bigger than Dánjal Petur was and the clothes are far too short around both the wrists and ankles. He looks like a little boy who has outgrown his clothes. But seeing him in Dánjal Petur’s sweater and pants also makes her stomach hurt. It evokes sad memories and makes her feel a little guilty for something she can’t really put into words. The wet clothes that Andrias had taken off are hung above the stove to dry.

“It’s already February and soon we will have brighter days,” Andrias says and puts his arms around Helena.

“We also have to talk about the wedding. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

Helena looks up at him. His cheeks were still red from the boat trip over. His eyes sparkled and his hair was wet. She kisses him fervently and then pulls away.

“Boys, go into the bedroom and play for a while. Mamma has something she needs to talk to Andrias about. I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

“Yeah, but do we have to? Can’t we just…” Mortan doesn’t let himself get pushed aside, but Tórur takes his arm and they go into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them.

Helena sits down at the table so that she is facing the closed bedroom door. Then she mo tions Andrias to sit on the chair across from her. He looks at her quizzically but sits down without a word. Helena takes a deep breath.

“Before we can talk about the wedding, I have to tell you something that nobody except for my sister Kathrina knows about.” Helena is silent for a moment and then looks up at him.

“We agreed that there would be no secrets be tween us when we said yes to one another.”

She falls silent again.

“This isn’t going to be easy to tell you,” she blurts out. Andrias has now grown serious. He takes her hands, which are resting on the table, but she pulls them away.

“You know you can tell me anything,” he says reassuringly in a low voice and looks insist ently at her.

“I used to be a maid for the farmer,” Helena begins. “One Sunday, when everyone had gone to church, he violated me. He raped me.”

Helena can hear Andrias sigh, but she doesn’t dare look at him. She steels herself and con tinues.

“I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid to tell anyone because who would believe me? Perhaps Omma and Abbi would have, but why burden them with such grief? So I just started working harder, trying to forget about it and decided that I would stay for the remaining months of my agreement. After that I was going to Copenhagen where Kathrina would help me get a job as a resident maid. I counted the days.” Helena is quiet for a moment and then continues.

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: FÁUR FÆR TRÁÐIN HEILT SLÆTTAN

Jógvan Isaksen: NIVLHEIMUR

Jógvan Isaksen, born in 1950, holds an MA in Nordic Lit erature and has taught Faroese literature and language at the University of Copenhagen since 1986. He has published a range of books about Faroese literature, and is primarily know for his crime novels set in the Faroe Islands.

Isaksen’s first crime novel, “Blíð er summarnátt á Føroyalandi” published in 1990, made him a household name. Since then he has written crime novels for adults and children, and his works have been translated into Danish, German, Icelan dic, Norwegian and English. He has written 10 crime novels in the series about investigating journalist Hannis Martinsson,

and his latest novel “Arktis” is his sixth in the series about de tective William Hammer. A TV series - TROM - based on four of the crime novels about inves tigating journalist Hannis Mar tinsson has been filmed in the Faroe Islands and will be avail able on Netflix in 2022. His new novel “Nivlheimur” features the investigating journalist Hannis Martinsson.

Title: Nivlheimur

Pages: 268

Publisher: Marselius

Year of publication: 2021 English sample available

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: NIVLHEIMUR

NIVLHEIMUR

Translated by Marita Thomsen

JAN MAYEN – FALL EQUINOX 1938

It was bone cold as he started up the hill. The air was nearly still. Only a faint breath of wind from the northwest could be felt. The weather here was usually cloudy most of the year, but tonight the sky was like a window, revealing countless stars between the breaking of clouds. There wasn’t much snow, so even though it could be slippery he was still able to walk in the starlight. After reaching the pass he could walk downhill for quite a stretch, and now it was dead calm. The frost didn’t bite as badly as it had a while ago. It was obviously getting milder. Suddenly, darkness surrounded him and before he knew it he was caught in a blizzard that con cealed both land and sky. The chaos was right in his face, the snowflakes were like needles and the wind howled like wild animals. He knew his life was in danger. The icy wind and the blasts of snow bit his bones. He tried to keep moving but it was practically impossible. He was between mountains and the gusts of wind were coming from every di rection. He had to find shelter until the worst was over. He tried to look around, but just opening his eyes was a challenge. The darkness was so black it was like walking in a closed cave.

He scanned the area in search of some sort of ref uge. Some rock he could hide behind. But the cold wind, the storm and the pitch black darkness fought against him. They wouldn’t ease off. He made an effort to keep moving. Whether it was forward or backward or sideways, it didn’t matter. The important thing was to move. Standing still was not an option. If he buried himself in the snow he would be in danger of falling asleep and never waking up.

That’s when his foot hit something. The terrain was uneven, but this felt different. Not like a regular bump. It didn’t really resist, it was almost as if it gave way. Nothing could be seen. The snow had covered everything and the utter darkness made it even worse. He had a flashlight in his backpack

but it was of little use in the flurry. He bent down and stuck his hand into a small snowdrift that was at his feet. It was dense, yet loose. He moved his hand slightly and suddenly the snow was up to his elbow. There was a hole of some sort here. He scraped the snow to the side revealing an opening of about forty centimetres. He fell to his knees, sticking his entire arm into the hole. What was this? He lied flat on his face and poked his head inside. There was a faint odour that was once putrid. This was a foxhole, but it had been many years since foxes inhabited the area. Maybe it was possible to get in through the entrance and into the hole? It would be cramped but he didn’t know what else to do. This weather could last for days. If he continued to hobble blindly about he wouldn’t come out of this alive. He took his backpack off and secured it into a snowdrift next to the opening. In a raging storm like this he wouldn’t be well off if his backpack flew away. He turned around and stuck his feet through the entrance, then crawled on his belly backward and downward. There was more of a slant in the entrance than he had expected, but the cave itself couldn’t be much further down.

It wasn’t that hard getting his hips inside and he was also able to press his shoulders in through the entrance where there was a little more space. He had to have his arms in front of him because if he got stuck he could hopefully pull himself up out of the hole again.

He grabbed his backpack with the one hand and pushed away with the other. He began to slide. And when he had slid a good half metre, it dawned on him that he might not stop. That he would fall far down into the earth. But a few moments later he felt the ground under his feet.

It was pitch dark in the den. He put his arms out to both sides, but felt nothing. He patted the floor of the den with his hands and thought he could feel bones. Not human bones, these were too small. He opened his backpack, got a hold of his flashlight and turned it on.

LISTEyðun Klakstein was born in 1972 and has a journalist education from the Danish School of Journalism. He was worked in the media for more than 25 years; as journalist, editor and host in radio and tv programmes. ”List” (Artful) is his debut novel. The novel received good reviews and was a bestseller in the Faroe Islands in 2021. ”List” is a crime thriller which examines how far people go in exploiting opportunities at the cost of other people. The story centres around the theft of the most valuable painting at the The Faroese National Art Gallery. The story shows how conflicts within the art society and the political system take their toll on innocent people, and as the story unravels the oppor tunistic human nature is exposed. ”List” is a thriller with pace, humour and suspense.

Title: List Pages: 116 Publisher: Sprotin Year of publication: 2021 English sample available

Photo: Eydbii Myndir

SELECTED WORKS: CRIME

Eyðun Klakstein:

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: LIST

ARTFUL

Translated by Lena Anderssen

Now I know what it’s like to get stabbed with a knife.

The blade of the sheath knife with the red handle pierced into the left side between my two lower ribs, but I didn’t realize it until the knife was pulled out of my body again. It was also then that the throbbing pain hit me like a hammer. I fell to the floor, clutching my side and squealing like – you guessed it – a stuck pig.

It was only recently that I had read on one of the Faroese online newspapers that a Norwegian abat toir had been fined for slaughtering pigs the wrong way. It seems the shameless slaughterhouse scalded the pigs alive. The Animal Welfare Act states that pigs must bleed to death – not be scalded alive – and frankly, I have to admit that I too would much rather bleed out than be scalded to death.

I don’t know why I can’t bloody well learn to mind my own business. It used to be because I drank like a fish. Everything was senseless then. I would easily end up in some irrelevant and unnecessary fight, taking a few punches now and then. But I never complained because I knew I deserved a kick in the groin too.

I have been sober for a few years now and behave much better around people. Some might call it good old-fashioned manners, which is something I’ve had to learn all over again after things deteriorated in drunkenness. That’s how we men are. We haven’t changed one bit since that first groggy Monday morning many thousands of years ago. If we get stuck, it’s due to one of the following three things: money, alcohol or women. Occasionally more than one of them at a time.

This time my problems had to do with the best of Faroese art – good old Mikines. So you won’t hear me preaching about nothing new being under the sun.

When it comes to Faroese art, there’s no escaping the painter who paved the road for it. Now Mikines had me searching down that very road and the rea son was because one of his masterpieces, Asketurin, which I used to have a special connection to, had disappeared. I felt compelled to get involved and told myself it was for the greater good. Frankly it was utter nonsense. I was just wildly curious and had a feeling that something wasn’t as it seemed. I was right. And should be pleased, now that I was lying here on the floor, the blood slowly seeping between my fingers. It felt warm and soft in my hands and I probably would have enjoyed this unusual experience a little more had I not been in a life-threatening situation. A cold sweat had broken out on my forehead and I was feeling dizzy. Whether I was hot or cold, I could not tell. It felt like I was both and neither. Rarely had I felt this helpless and bewildered.

I couldn’t help but think of my friend Death –and perhaps it wasn’t that strange, considering the circumstances. Death’s real name was actually Magnus Pauli. He turned seventy in the spring and had been a fisherman most of his life. About half a century ago he got into an argument with some friends while they were sitting up against a shed in Eiði drinking Elephant beer. In a fit of enthusiasm Magnus Pauli had told them that he was planning on becoming a pilot. The others had laughed and teased him so badly that Magnus Pauli put his foot down. He told them he was going straight home to pack his bag, that he was leaving the village and that they would not see him until he returned home in a pilot’s uniform. Magnus Pauli went home. He packed his bag and left the house staggering. But he never got further than the cemetery, where he passed out. Since then they have called him Death. But he is still very much alive and kicking and swears that he isn’t going to put his rubber boots in the shed until the fishing grounds North of the Faroes are all fished out.

TAÐ LOVAÐA LANDIÐ

Hanus Kamban is a writer, essayist, biographer, poet and is primarily known for his short stories. In some of his stories, played out against an austere, rural back drop, he deals with religious and sexual repression. In others, he makes use of old Faroese legends or draws on Europe as a setting, alluding to continental art and literature. His style is psychologically sensitive. Both Pílagrímar and Gullgentan have been nominated for the Nordic Council’s Literature Prize. Tað lovaða landið is his new short story collection.

SELECTED

SHORT

Hanus Kamban:

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: TAÐ LOVAÐA LANDIÐ

THE PROMISED LAND

Translated by Marita Thomsen

And she took my head between her warm soft hands and kissed my brow, solemnly, like in a ceremony.

Hjalmar Söderberg: Doktor Glas

I

THE NEW ROOM was located in a corner of the student dorm. There were two large windows, one faced a narrow passage and the other fronted on a wide avenue, which on its way into town joined the main boulevard that hissed with uninterrupted traffic all day long. The interior was painstakingly tidy, dusted and washed on the desk overlooking the passage sat the typewriter, against the wall towards the avenue stood the bed, which doubled as a sofa during the day, and to the left as you entered two bookcases stretched. On the right was the sink. The room was suffused with a sharpish chemical scent, probably from the new record player. Books lit up the place – Maugham, Zweig, Söderberg, Huxley.

It was all so strange. He had acquired a room, a job and a new life. What had happened was that about two months earlier the phone chimed for him. Just before noon one day. Aleksis was at the other end. He instantly recognised the clipped, cultured voice.

‘Good day, Sinbad. I bear happy tidings. You have a job now. Starting tomorrow at 10 am. Let me know if this suits.’ […]

[…]

When he received his first pay, he nearly fell upwards. Never had that sort of sum been trans ferred into his account. He made an arrangement with the bank about repaying his loans and still he felt like a Croesus. He didn’t know it then, not really, but the contours of a new existence seemed to be coming into focus. A decent student room, a well-paid job, the means to give existence a gilded frame.

Carmen entered his life at about the same time. They met one morning on the way home

from town, they were wild, Carmen was in the company of Otto, who was pale, very intelligent, a, what might you say, leptosomic Adonis. With them was a girl, Georgiana was her name, but for her overgrown breasts she became known as The Dairy. The street was deserted. They passed a wineshop. The display flaunted select bottles. In the park on the other side of the boulevard blackbirds and starlings were proclaiming the arrival of spring. Somewhere a cuckoo was cooing. They stopped to look. The bottles were emissaries from exotic cities: Arezzo, Siena, Positano, Burgos.

Suddenly Sinbad rammed his fist through the big pane and grabbed two bottles. They heard the tinkle of falling shards followed by an alarm, but Sinbad crossed over the boulevard and disappeared into the park opposite. Carmen and Otto followed him, while Georgiana ran, as quickly has her breasts would let her, and disappeared down a side street. The other three plunked themselves down on a park bench. Otto, who had a knife with a corkscrew, opened a bottle, and so they lounged and drank and chattered as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Carrion crows swooped between branches. They emptied the bottle, ambled up to the lake and rented a boat. The boys rowed lazily out on the water. Carmen presided over the stern. She broke into a morning hymn, ‘The dazzling sun now rises from the East.’ They opened the second bottle. Carmen had mahogany red hair. She slipped off her blouse, the sun lit up her face, shoulders and arms. Her smile exuded a blend of charm, melancholy and some enigmatic, antique nobility. They spent a leisurely hour on the lake, then rowed back to shore and agreed they should meet again sometime. Sinbad gave Carmen his new address.

Two days later there was a knock at his door. Sinbad didn’t recognise the rhythm, three calm, somewhat heavy raps, the time between knocks was longer than usual, but exactly the same for each thud. He went over and opened. It was ten o’clock. he had been on the night shift, was just awake and barely out of bed. Outside stood Carmen.

SELECTED WORKS: POETRY

Rannvá Holm Mortensen VÁRMJÓLK

Rannvá Holm Mortensen (1950) is a poet and versatile visual artist. She is self–taught, but took part in Metáfo ra International Workshop in Barcelona in 2013/2014. Her art ranges from paintings, prints, installations and text to sculptures. In recent years, she has also worked with textile, writing, book illustration and interior deco ration. Her subjects are often rendered in organic shapes and human forms in lush green underwater worlds, and many of her collages convey an element of social poli tics. Rannvá Mortensen regularly exibits in the Faroe Is lands and internally. In 2008 an artbook about her work was published by The Faroese Art Museum. In 2018 Rannvá made her debut with the poetry collection Sóls makkur (Sprotin) for which she was awarded the M.A. Jacobsen’s Award for literature. Her second collection Vármjólk was published earlier this year.

Title: Vármjólk

Pages: 104

Publisher: Sprotin Year of publication: 2022 English sample available

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: VÁRMJÓLK

SPRING MILK

Translated by Matthew Lamdrum

i smell life

i smell life in generations i smell milk milk running from the eye sockets endless as the ocean severed breasts and fingertips floating on waves of milk the sun the shining breast of the universe the plain face of god

undiscovered milkseas have appeared on the world map to the shock of radar and satellites previously unknown species of fish are now common fish with blue eyes and nipples on their bellies

new milkscapes with breastfeeding trees milk seeping from nipples along their trunks small fetuses latch like limpets on bedrock suckling sounds fill the night

the milkdeeps are dangerous tonight i heard it on the radio now we have to trawl with wide gapped nets to let all nipples get through unharmed

creameries and factories laboratories with dairy products in shiny flasks and glass tubes a highly pressurized system of milkdreams pipes groan lactose clouds and children’s cries hissing from milkvents mineral stories and fairy tales

refrigerators filled with milk cultured in petri dishes breasts pressed between glass plates from sobbing mammograms on the top shelf compress mothermilktyranny into hermetically sealed cans quivering cups of cream and ice-cold jugs of milk

breasts swathed in silk with dangerous cleavage pale amputated breasts floating in formaldehyde in transparent glass jars breasts tied down on metal tables

blocked milk ducts and vanished children

mother’s milk prolactin estrogen progesterone the child grows in the night haunted by nipples nipples in wet dreams nipples with metal rings calling out in agony tame nipples like pet lambs aggressive nipples on white planets satellite nipples broadcasting on your frequency let the little children come to me

breasts in all shapes round big small long inverted nipples nipples like mountaintops nipples stitched onto frothy phd theses royal blue nipples downy scared breasts sleeping breasts like small pancakes breasts like clenched fists and apples white brown black breasts beaten black and blue dissected stitched breasts carnival breasts and padded bras entire breast theme parks with silicone prostheses sour milk curdled milk spoiled milk the witchmilk of longing you are the salt in my blood and the sweetness in my smile

milk and sutures i can see my mother and my grandmothers my aunts and their children all their best years on the maternity ward pushing children into the world milk and sutures ecstatic milkgospels float between the beds breasts how are you my breasts dressed in windblown grass the greening of our heartbeats we lie nipple to nipple my dear greening and electric lie close to me tonight

Beinir Bergsson: SÓLGARÐURIN

Beinir Bergsson made his debut in 2017 with the poet ry collection Tann lítli drongurin og beinagrindin which portrays, inter alia, the loss of a parent, the poet-self’s father. The debut work won EBBA-virðislønin, the an nual literature prize of the Faroese Writers’ Associa tion. In Sólgarðurin (Forlagið Eksil, 2021), the poet-self is now older. From being preoccupied with absence and distance, he is now preoccupied with closeness, intimacy and sexuality: specifically, between the bod ies of two boys. And specifically, by creating space for their sexuality. Beinir himself has described Sólgar ðurin in the media as both a concrete physical space and an abstract mental space. The poems are set pri marily in two locations: in particular, the bed in a bed room and the grandmother’s garden.

Title: Sólgarðurin

Pages: 68

Eksil

Year of publication: 2021 English sample available Rights sold to Denmark & Greece

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: SÓLGARÐURIN

THE SUNTRAP

Translated by Marita Thomsen

In the night garden your fingers go on a lazy stroll along my leg a drove of woodlice eats my dead skin

*

Scratch my back where it itches when you are ready to see my lady-ferns unfurl

*

Blow into my mouth make the veins sprout at the cusp of my finger tips

*

Weed with me around the fern another planted in the garden

I promise you our blossoms will be just as striking

*

Arteries run through the stones we laid outside

they are practicing the art of conversation

*

You lay a ground beetle on my belly it spits up digestive juice on the leaves shed in my garden swallows them

*

I have a fistful of grass I cut the day before yesterday do you think the hair he tore from me has turned to hay?

*

‘D’you know I go sit in the suntrap when I’m too tired to potter about the garden anymore I start at one end of the hedge but by the time I’ve made it ‘round it’s so overgrown I have to start over’

‘I can believe that but isn’t it lovely to have your hands full?’

‘Aye but the flowers your omma had here sulk when I plant them or I don’t get ‘round to them when I have to trim the hedge and cut the grass d’you think she’d turn in her grave?’

‘I wish she could see you now abbi’

*

You who didn’t want to sleep in my arms anymore after our mellow spring morn ing at yours who had to be at work before me kissed my forehead stood in the doorway gazing at me when I left my seeds stayed behind in your bed

*

Every time you pat me on the back caress my cheek tickle me embrace me lift me up hold me up play with me wordlessly you each add a stone to the cairn so my suntrap is more salient when other men loose their way nearby

*

Lív Maria Róadóttir Jæger: EG SKRIVI Á VÁTT PAPPÍR

Lív Maria Róadóttir Jæger (born in 1981) published the poem recording ”Mítt navn við hondskrift” (‘My Name in Handwriting’) in 2014, and her first poetry collec tion, ”Hvít sól” (‘White Sun’) in 2015. She holds an MA in Philosophy from the University of Copenhagen. Eg skrivi á vátt pappír is her second poetry collection.

“Eg skrivi á vátt pappír” is about writing to understand relation ships and the relationship be tween your own thoughts and the thoughts of all the others, and about understanding your self as a child, a young woman and a human being participating in the lives of others. The title

indicates the poet’s linguistic awareness and in addition (al most correctly inviting) a won derfully outgoing and analytical ly sensitive gaze that passes in shifting forms through the eight parts of the collection. “Eg skrivi á vátt pappír” was nominated for the Nordic Literature Prize 2021.

Title: Eg skrivi á vátt pappír Pages: 128 Publisher: Eksil Year of publication: 2020 English and French sample available

Published in Denmark Rights sold to Canada

Photo: Finnur Justinussen

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: EG SKRIVI Á VÁTT PAPPÍR

EG SKRIVI Á VÁTT PAPPÍR

Translated by Matthew Landrum

TEENAGE DIARY 1996

I write

mammals are not to be trusted and men give birth to live offspring

my fingersun blazes my armpit itches

my moonshadow is blue navel-light

my breasts further up tender skin chafes

sweatflower blooms rot deodorant

TEENAGE DIARY 1997

I write

whale meat tastes like steel wool between the teeth

black-red meal smack of salt whale-sea

death-struck youth cottonmouth

nylon pantyhose a rancid smell

TEENAGE DIARY 1997

Mother is angry

EAT she tells me and sets a plate of boiled whale and a glass of milk in front of me

I’m angry too I’ve eaten nothing but marshmallows for two weeks straight never been skinnier never been more amazing

you’re too thin she tells me I’m three centimeters taller than Descartes I say anyway my weight’s right for my height I don’t want to be fat

EAT she tells me

I choke down blubber on potatoes with ketchup and mustard drink cold milk angry as a whale

TEENAGE DIARY 1998

your boyfriend’s cute mother says but the two of you aren’t an intellectual match

I write cute - intelligence = but…

TEENAGE DIARY 1998 boyfriend guts fish in the Bacalao factory from morning to afternoon

meets up with brunette girl in the bathroom and god knows what they get up to in there people say the phone in the kitchen rings boyfriend denies everything

I find girl in the phonebook girl lives in Norðasta Horn

I drive out there in my blue Ford Fiesta

girl denies everything

I write dear boyfriend I’m breaking up with you but I’m keeping the buffalo shoes you gave me

Lív

EINKI HEITI

Tóroddur Poulsen, born in 1957 in Tórshavn, is a poet, musician and graphic artist. He made his debut in 1984 and has since then been very prolific and a char acteristic voice in Nordic literature. Poulsen’s works are provocative and humorous in character, which he carries out with an acute awareness of expression.

His multi-pronged approach to the arts bears mark on his poetic work, which in turn is characteristic in its audio-visual expression. Tóroddur Poulsen has been awarded the Faroese Culture Prize in 2012 and the M.A. Jacobsen’s Award twice. He has also been nominated for the Nordic Council Literature Prize on several occasions and has received awards in Denmark where he has been living for sev eral years. His works have been translated into Danish, Swedish, German,

English and French and have appeared in a number of literary journals.

His poetry collection “Takren nutónar” was published in 2019, and in a review it was said stat ed that “the poems are so light and elegant that they almost evaporate as you are reading them. What trickers the reader’s imagination is when something unexpected is being introduced”. Poulsen’s most recent poetry collection is called “Einki heiti”.

Title: Einki heiti

Pages: 56

Publisher: Sprotin

Year of publication: 2022 English sample available

SELECTED WORKS: POETRY

Tóroddur Poulsen:

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: EINKI HEITI

NO TITLE

Translated by Matthew Lamdrum

UNDERTAKING

sometimes writing stirs the pot so hard lullabies from childhood’s ebb tide make us run away from errands no one sent us on CHECKLIST

must put something together that will stand the test of time so it can be used as a lifeboat once all the ice has melted

UNTITLED

my name is just a pseudonym my job title doesn´t exist i don’t get paid to be here and that’s alright with me since i both believe and know that this is the way it is here and that this will be enough when you’re no longer there you pretty much weren´t there for your christening either and someone else answered for you

LITERATURISH

when she tells me she can’t manage reading even a slim volume of poetry in one sitting it doesn’t strike me as strange consider how it took her and the others a hundred years to write one lousy history of our literature

SELECTED WORKS: CHILDREN & YOUNG ADULTS

Elin Michelsen:

RIMARÚMIÐ

Elin Michelsen was born and raised in Tórshavn but has spent many years abroad in various countries around the world before settling in the Faroe Islands where she works as a radio journalist.

Being away from the Faroe Is lands gave her an appreciation for the unique wealth of history and folklore originated in her homeland and this paired with a mad love for fantasy literature planted the slow-growing seed of a story.

The story of Tóra is born out of two joined desires. Firstly the desire to give new life to the stories from the time before electric light brightened the is lands, when the huldres, known as the gray people, lived in the darkness ready to do mischief if

you were careless and secondly to create a fierce female protag onist. A girl, like so many other girls coming of age with all the issues this entails, Tóra is also different.

Rimarúmið is Elin Michelsen’s debut novel and the first in the Tóra triology. The second installation Vanvarði is to be published in November 2022.

Title: Rimarúmið

Pages: 382

Publisher: BFL

Year of publication: 2021 English sample available

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: RIMARÚMIÐ

THE BARRED ROOM

Translated by Marita Thomsen

‘Now try invoking the red gift.’

Tóra had expected to feel something when Billa re moved the fetter, but she didn’t feel a thing. She invoked red, and she came just as easily as she did before, but the gift felt stronger. Brighter, more alive somehow.

‘The red gift gives you power over people, Tóra. It enables you to shift their moods and thoughts and control them, so it comes with great responsibility. Take it seriously, understood?’

Tóra nods and sits still for a moment. Then Billa sighs.

‘And there is something else. Lately red appears to have been a little moody for several of us.’

‘What do you mean moody?’

‘Well, moody as in moody. It differs from hulda to hulda. Some have trouble invoking red, others find it hard to control her, while others haven’t had the results they intended when using her.’

This doesn’t bode well. Tóra is starting to feel a little wary of taking on red.

She doesn’t know what to look out for. How will she know when red isn’t behaving normally? She has no experience of normal! She doesn’t even know how she might use red.

‘So, what do I do now? Will you teach me how to use it?’

‘Yes, I will teach you as much as I can. I wish I had more time, but the exams will be coming up before we know it, and I have to prepare them. After what happened with Heri and Marita, we are under strict surveillance. So I have spoken to someone who would love to help you when I can’t. Eleonora is very capable, and she knows what is important for you to learn from the beginning. She also knows you, and that matter most. But if you have any concerns at all, do come to me. I shall interrupt what I’m doing and be ready to help.’

This makes Tóra feel a little safer, and the ache in the pit of her stomach dissolves into butterflies, because she really has a gift.

FINALLY!

Tóra couldn’t wish for a better teacher than Eleonora, so she sprints back to the school as soon as she and Billa are done.

As she runs her thoughts sync with the beat of her pounding feet devouring the stretch back to the school:

I have a gift

I have a gift

I have a gift

I have a gift

She finds Eleonora outside the classroom talking to some boy in year 4, at least Tóra is pretty certain he is. She is so excited to tell Eleonora about the gift that she trundles straight over and wedges herself between Eleonora and the boy and starts chattering. It’s only after she has rattled off both the first and the second sentence that she notices Eleonora’s flushed cheeks and starry eyes.

She comes too again and notices what she is actually interrupting.

Shit! Well done you, you plonked both your massive feet in it, it’s a true talent that!

She tries as hard as she can to back up, but keeps talking as she retreats, because she has no clue how to untangle herself from this situation without making it horribly awkward for everyone. So she keeps backing until she is so far away that she can just turn and go, and that is what she does. Mid sentence.

Her final glimpse is of Eleonora’s eyebrows, curled quiz zically halfway up her forehead.

Now it’s her turn to blush, while silently scolding herself.

What on earth is up with you, Tóra?

She has survived this long by being an expert at reading her surroundings, and knowing how to adapt, and then she steamrolls, butt first, into a romantic moment between Eleonora and that bloke.

The saddest part is that she can’t start using red. Then again, why shouldn’t she start? Nobody said it was a requirement that she wait for a teacher. She can just get on with it, can’t she?

So she finds one of the cosy classrooms full of pillows and throws herself on a big pile of them. Then she shuts her eyes and invokes the red gift, instantly it fills her. Red is bigger than usual, and feels stronger than she did before she was released. She is eager to get started too, Tóra thinks with a little giggle. Before she has time to do anything the door swings open and Eleonora enters.

‘I’m so glad I found you.’ She stops in the doorway. ‘You’re red!’ She rushes over and dives into the sea of pillows to give Tóra a massive hug.

‘I’m red and I’m mortified that I just butted in like that,’ Tóra says. ‘But who was he? I was so startled that I to tally forgot to look at him. All I could see was how in loooooooove you looked,’ she adds with a tender laugh. Eleonora hides her face in the pillows and talks into them, so Tóra can’t hear a single word.

Dánial Hoydal: ABBI OG EG OG ABBI

Dánial Hoydal (b. 1976), an author and translator, has worked in many genres. With this book ”Abbi og eg og abbi” – which is the first in a series about how mental illness affects children – he is back where he started as an author: writing for children.

With a Master in Rhetoric, he has worked with communication all his career. His first publication was the highly popular children’s book “Í Geyma” (2001), a fabled story characterized by turning Faroese puns into characters, which he later also turned in to a theatre play. After that he translated 6 different musicals and music theatre pieces into Faroese that were all performed on stage on the islands. Marking the 100-year anniversity of the christening of the Faroe Islands,

he wrote the award-winning text for the National Day can tata (2000). He also wrote the libretto for the first ever Faroese opera, The Madman’s Garden (2006), with music by Sunleif Rasmussen. In 2012 he wrote the musical “Audition” together with composer Tróndur Bogason. He has also written short stories for children and poetry that has been published in anthologies and periodicals. In 2021 he re ceived the Faroese Children’s Literature Award.

Year of publication: 2021 English sample available Rights sold to Denmark

SELECTED

FROM THE BOOK: ABBI OG EG OG ABBI

GRANDDAD AND I AND GRANDDAD

Translated by Marita Thomsen

1

Granddad and I feed the ducks, and I always eat some of the bread.

‘Now, now, leave a little for the ducks,’ granddad says. Then we laugh and I get an apple. Granddad always has apples.

2

Granddad knows a lot of stories. He can even tell stories without a book. Fairy tales and silly stories. Sometimes I think he just makes them up.

3

Granddad says funny things. He loves to play with words. Like when he tucks me in and says, ‘Sweet dreams eat custard creams.’

And when he wakes me up again he says, ‘Tickety tock it’s mischief o’clock.’

4

‘Would you like a ghost in a suit?’ granddad says when it is time for breakfast. And then I know he means toast and fruit.

‘Or maybe jamming bees?’ Even if he remembers that I don’t like ham and cheese.

5

Granddad also knows many strange words like ‘zephyr’ and ‘pocket philosophy.’ I don’t understand granddad when he uses them, but it sounds funny, so I laugh – and then he laughs with me.

6

Granddad can do anything, but there are some things I can’t do, so then granddad helps me. When I can’t find my hat. When my shoelaces need to be tied. When I don’t know what something is called.

7

But one morning granddad calls the duck a hen. And when we get back to granddad’s, I see that he puts the remote control in the fridge. I laugh and say, ‘Silly granddad.’

‘Yes, aren’t I silly,’ granddad says and laughs.

8

After my summer holiday in Denmark, I head straight to granddad’s house. We go and feed the ducks. But I don’t feel like eating

the bread, because it has white spots and it smells funny. I wait for granddad to tell me to leave some for the ducks, but he doesn’t say anything. So I just throw all the bread to the ducks.

9

When we get back to granddad’s, he hangs my shoes up on the peg. And then gives me an onion. ‘Granddad! You’re being silly.’ ‘You are right, I’m being silly,’ granddad says, but he doesn’t laugh.

10

When I get home, I tell mum all about the bread and the shoes and the onion. ‘Granddad is being silly,’ I say. ‘But he doesn’t laugh.’

11

I can tell it makes mum sad. Then she hugs me and says, ‘Sometimes granddad gets a little confused. And he forgets a lot of things. But he still loves to be silly with you.’

12

Then mum tells me that granddad has grown old, and that old people sometimes start to forget things. ‘So, will he forget me too?’ I ask. ‘No, sweetheart, he will never forget you. He might not always remember to give you an apple instead of an onion, but then you just have to help him. And don’t forget to ask him to be silly.’

13

Now I help granddad. Mum gives me bread for the ducks, and I bring my own apples – one for me and one for granddad. And when granddad tries to sprinkle salt on the oatmeal, then I help him find the sugar.

14

We are still silly. Granddad says more strange words than ever, and then I laugh, and then granddad laughs too.

‘You are great at being silly, granddad.’ ‘You are great at being chilly scallywag,’ granddad says.

I and granddad. But also granddad and I.

Rakel Helmsdal: REIGGJAN

Rakel Helmsdal (b. 1966) made her literary debut in 1995 and has ever since written books which have won her a number of literary awards. Since 2004 she has been working with Swedish author Kalle Güettler and Icelandic illustrator Áslaug Jónsdóttir on a series of picture books about Little Monster and Big Monster. The series has won a string of awards and has been published in several languages.

Rakel has also become a wellknown name in Nordic literature for children and young people. In 2016, she entered the IBBY Hon our List and received the West Nordic Council’s Children and Youth Literature Prize for the book “Hon, sum róði eftir ælabo ganum”, and in 2018, together with Áslaug Jónsdóttir and Kalle Güettler, she was awarded the Icelandic Literature Prize in the children and young people lit erature category for Skrímsli í vanda (“Monsters in Trouble”).

In 2019 her musical fairy tale “Veiða Vind” was performed at the Barbican Centre by the Lon don Symphony Orchestra. She has also been working with her own puppet theatre “Karavella Marionett-Teatur” since 2011,

in which she creates the char acters, stage, and script herself.

With the picture book “Loftar tú mær” from 2019, Rakel Helms dal made her mark as an illus trator by making use of her pup pet theatre work; she made the figures, objects and scenes, and with them created the scenes which were then photographed and graphically manipulated. Her graphic novel “Kjarr” (Scrub) is about a skeleton in the scrub. A shattered childhood. The story about Laura is a journey through memories, arenas with flickering torches, and a quest for answers to burning questions. “Reiggjan” (The Swing) is Rakel’s most re cent book.

Title: Reiggjan

Pages: 36

Publisher: BFL

Year of publication: 2021 English sample available

SELECTED WORKS: CHILDREN & YOUNG ADULTS

Photo: Gwenaël Akira Helmsdal Carré

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: REIGGJAN

THE SWING

Translated by Matthew Landrum

Our garden is big and there are lots of trees, but there’s only one tree big enough for a swing.

The tree is old and gnarled. A storm blew it sideways and now it leans to one side.

The tree only has one branch that’s right for a swing. The branch stretches out past the garden.

My brother and I have always wanted a swing, but Mom and Dad say no way.

One day I found a perfect board and my brother found a long rope. We´re both really good at tying knots. Dad taught us how.

We made the world’s best swing. We played on it all day and dreamed ourselves to faraway places.

We sailed the open sea, raised sail and looked for treasure, fought pirates and won. The seagulls soared above us laughing.

We flew in a hot air balloon to distant lands, over deserts and rainforests. We played with the eagles, the owls, and the condors.

We washed skyscraper windows while cars hummed along the road far, far below and swallow swirled about us.

We climbed mountains, often nearly falling teetering between the sky and abyss. We were the first ever to summit peaks so high not even birds could reach them.

We swung beneath the arch of a grand circus tent we jumped and caught hold of each other. The crowd beneath us held their breath but we were the best trapeze artists ever. We flew like birds.

All the neighborhood children heard about the swing and came over to play.

At dinner that night, we told Mom and Dad about all our adventures. They got awfully quiet.

When they tucked us in for bed they had tears in their eyes. and hugged us extra tight

The next morning The swing was gone. I don´t think we´re going to put it up again.

Bárður Oskarsson: HILBERT

Bárður Oskarsson, born in 1972, is an author and illus trator. He started out as an illustrator for a Faroese Chil dren’s Magazine and the first book he illustrated was one of his grandfather’s in 1992.

In 2004 he published his first book “Ein hundur, ein ketta og ein mús” which he both wrote and illustrated. The book earned him a White Raven in 2006 by the International Youth Library in Munich and the West Nor dic Children’s Literature Prize. Oskarsson’s illustrations are unique, they resemble cartoon illustrations and clearly con vey moods and atmospheres in a tiny wink or a minute move ment. His book from 2011 “Fla ta kaninin” has won him several international literature prizes and has been translated into

about 20 different languages. Oskarsson’s book “Træið” from 2017 won him the Nordic Coun cil Children and Young People’s Literature Prize 2018. His most recent book “Hilbert” is about two friends, Bob and Hilbert. One day Bob gets a message from Hilbert, who needs help with something. Bob finds Hilbert dangling in the air. Hilbert wants Bob’s help to get down, so that he can go home.

Title: Hilbert Pages: 32

Publisher: BFL

Year of publication: 2020 English sample available Rights sold to Bulgaria, Canada, Czech Republic, Denmark, France, Frisland, Germany, Hungary, Iceland, Italy, Korea, Macedonia, North and South America, Norway, Slovenia, Sweden, UK, Ukraine

SELECTED WORKS: CHILDREN & YOUNG ADULTS

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: HILBERT

HILBERT

Translated by Marita Thomsen

One day, Bob’s phone pinged when he was on his way home from the shop.

‘That was why I called you,’ Hilbert said. ‘I don’t want anyone else to see me hanging up here, midair. Could you help me down, so that I can get home?’

Bob had received a text message from Hilbert. It said: ‘Hi Bob, could you come help me, please?’

Bob rang Hilbert to find out what was the matter.

‘Hmmm,’ Bob said and thought about it for a while.

Hilbert answered the phone, ‘Hello?’ ‘Hilbert?’ Bob asked.

‘Yes…? Is this Bob?’ asked Hilbert in a cau tious tone.

‘Yes, this is Bob. What do you need my help for?’

‘Look, take this carrot. It might work.’

It worked immediately! Hilbert’s two feet were back on the ground again, but with Bob’s carrot. ‘Thank you so much, Bob! I can get home now,’ Hilbert said. He was ecstatic. But Bob wasn’t that pleased.

Hilbert didn’t reply straight away, but then he said, ‘I don’t know how to explain it, can’t you just come over? You will see what is the matter.’ ‘Okay then,’ said Bob and he went to find Hilbert.

He started wondering. What could Hilbert need his help for?

‘Hi Bob,’ said Hilbert when he spotted Bob. ‘Hi Hilbert,’ said Bob.

Then they were quiet for a bit. Hilbert was waiting for Bob to say something, and Bob didn’t know what to say. But he knew that he had to say something.

‘But that is my carrot, you know,’ Bob said. ‘But now we know that all you need to do is carry something heavy around, then you won’t be dangling in the air.’ Bob pondered for a while.

“I know what we can do now,’ he said when he had finished. Bob left for a moment, and then he came back with a string.

‘We will tie this around your legs, so that I can drag you home. Okay?’ Bob asked.

Hilbert found it a little strange to be on a leash. He preferred carrying the carrot. But maybe a dog with a carrot looks a little odd.

‘How did you get up there?’ Bob finally asked. ‘I don’t know,’ Hilbert replied. ‘I was just running around, doing some jumps, but then one time when I jumped I just stayed in the air, and now I can’t get down again.’

On the way home, Hilbert thought this was a bit like flying.

SELECTED WORKS: NON-FICTION

Bergur Rønne Moberg: OM BØRN, TRÆER, HVALER OG ANDRE, DER HAR GOD TID: POETISKE PERLER

AF WILLIAM HEINESEN

Bergur Rønne Moberg in an Associate Professor in the Department of Nordic Studies and Linguistics at the University of Copenhagen. Moberg has written several treatises about Faroese author William Heinesen in which he describes Heinesen as a European author and put his works into the context of world literature and history of ideas.

Title: Om børn, træer, hvaler og andre, der har god tid: Poetiske perler af William Heinesen Pages: 268 Publisher: Sprotin Year of publication: 2021 English sample available

EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK: POETISKE PERLER AF WILLIAM HEINESEN

WILLIAM HEINESEN: CITATIONS FROM: ‘ON CHILDREN, TREES, WHALES’

Translated by Lindy Falk van Rooyen

I.

Life is a mystery, overwhelmingly light and won derful, overwhelmingly dark and grim, indefinable and incomprehensible.

Of all living beings, man is indeed the only creature that embarks upon the scrutiny and veri fication of its own laws and patterns of behaviour.

In the phenomenal drama of life we are –contrary to all other creatures – both actors and spectators of the stage. A genuinely curious state of affairs!

When the stars sparkle we know they are phe nomena wholly beyond our dimensions, even as we know they are the finest figment of the eye; the light we see radiated is but a reflection of our own inner glow. (24.11.1957)

garden basks in a magical, lunar-like sunlight. Not a soul is out here. Not as much as an amoeba. In a sense, this immense world with its poles and equator and moons has no existence – other than its conception in the mind of mortals on earth. And even this conception of the gigantic planet is an abstraction.

Yet as it lies here in the sky this evening, just above Janus Kamban’s studio on the soil of Karsten Hoydal, flanked by Aldebaran in the south and Castor and Pollux in the north, it is part and parcel of Tórshavn environs – and has been for eons – like a loyal guest in our humble landscape. Indeed, long before the Faroe Isles came into being, this heavenly vault shone over the nameless ocean now known as the Atlantic. And when our meagre rock islands are swallowed by this sea once more, the lifeless wretch with its proud, divine name will still blaze its frenetic brilliance, perhaps for the benefit of no one.

II.

It is not unusual to find the most passionate lovers of life amongst those who are convinced of its utter absurdity, and, as such, they regard suicide as the only appropriate reaction to the conditions of their existence. For, when all values are diluted to the minimum – the tree of life shorn to the very root – sustenance flows with an unrestrained ferocity never before seen, its tapers plumb the darkness of the earth in desperation – a flush is brought to cheeks of the misanthropic Schopenhauer, and the darkened volcano Nietzsche is provoked to fresh eruptions, making the world tremble anew. (A Camus is inspired to imbue lethal lines of dith yrambic optimism into Sisyphus serving his eternal damnation to labour in Hades!) (1972)

Oh, embrace it, if you see it, love it as best you can, give it some comfort for a moment, for it is poorer than the poorest dog on earth, lonelier than all loneliness!

(15.11.1965)

IV.

From a man whose lifetime extends beyond two thirds of a century one might well expect some words akin to general wisdom? What is the sum of the twenty-five-thousand days on his scoreboard? What has such a man learnt from life, what gems of experience or conclusions drawn might he be able to share with others?

III.

It is five o’ clock and already dark. I am sitting on the hill. Low in the night sky in the east lies Aldebaran, the red eye of Taurus, the hazy Seven Sisters, the white Capella and the gigantic planet Jupiter, whose supernatural enormous ammonia

I cannot offer any comprehensive answers to these questions. I am neither philosopher nor mor alist, neither sceptic nor intellectual. I have never been able to link an extended chain of thought, not if such thoughts were couched in abstractions. For my element is fiction. I only understand something when I create it. Naturally, ‘understand’ is far too absolute a word; I can hardly understand what I have created – more often than not, I feel as if I were the bare minimum of a medium.

(09.7.1967)

BOOK

FICTION

Vatn er ein vátur logi (2021)

Terningar, søgur av tilvild (2019)

Sær - ein fuglabók av gloymsku (2017)

Carl Jóhan Jensen Sprotin

Fáur fær tráðin heilt slættan (2021)

Ein annar er gull (2020)

Ein táttur er silvur (2019)

Sólrún Michelsen Sprotin

Hjarta mítt fyri fót tín (2021)

Lív í Baianstovu

Forlagið Lív

Gentan í verðini (2020)

Katrin Ottarsdóttir Sprotin

Jarðarferðin (2019)

Jóanes Nielsen Sprotin

Gloymdur (2019)

Solby Kristiansdóttir Sprotin

Psykodrotningin sigur frá (2019)

Anna Malan Jógvansdóttir Sprotin

Ikki fyrr enn tá (2019)

Oddfríður Marni Rasmussen Sprotin

NON-FICTION

Om børn, træer, hvaler og andre, der har god tid (2021)

Bergur Rønne Moberg Sprotin

Ketilostur, maðurin umborð, og putursukurveðrar (2021)

Í stovuni sofu, í køki komfýr (2020)

Jóan Pauli Joensen Sprotin

Gimburlombiniein endurminning sum kókibók (2020)

Tjóðhild Patursson Sprotin

Gilgamesj (2020)

Kristian Osvald Viderö Sprotin

Sanna Apol (2020)

Katrin Apol Didriksen Sprotin

Svik (2019)

Jan Lamhauge Sprotin

Nakrir tættir úr lívi V. U. Hammershaimbs (2019) Regin av Steinum Sprotin

Faroes(e) (2019)

Eva Nielsen Sprotin

Góða systir - ein dagbók til Arnvør (2019)

Margit M. Baadsager Sprotin

Vinaliga (2019)

Brævaskiftið millum William Heinesen og Jørgen-Frantz Jacobsen 1920-1938 Sprotin

Heimurin, ið hvarv (2019) Knút Háberg Eysturstein Sprotin

Frits (2019) Sprotin

Míni leikapetti (2018) Eyðun Johannessen Sprotin

CRIME

Nivlheimur (2021) Paranoia (2020)

Arktis (2019)

Anathema (2018)

Heljarportur (2017)

Jógvan Isaksen Marselius

Ein er tíðin at liva (2019)

Horvna rósan (2018)

Seytjandi maðurin (2018) Hevndin úr havsins dýpi (2017) Steintór Rasmussen Sprotin

Vit, Føroya fólk (2019) Bjørk Maria Kunoy Egið forlag

ART BOOKS

Føroyasmakkur - KOKS (2022) Tim Ecott Sprotin

Palli (2020) Hannis Egholm Sprotin

Boðskapurin í trænum (2017) Nils Ohrt Sprotin

POETRY

Karmageitin (2022) Marjun Syderbø Kjelnæs Ungu Føroyar

Setorð (2022)

Arnbjørn Ó. Dalsgarð Sprotin

Einki heiti (2022)

Fyribilsni (2021)

Bond (2020)

Takrennutónar (2019)

Himnahyljar (2018)

Ferðamaður í egnum landi (2017)

Tóroddur Poulsen Sprotin

Vármjólk (2022)

Sólsmakkur (2018)

Rannvá Holm Mortensen Sprotin

Fragmentir (2021)

Daniella Andreasen Eksil

Eitt (2021) Helgi Rasmussen Sprotin

Millum blundirnar (2021)

Heðin M. Klein Sprotin

Myndir við tíð í (2021)

Martin Næs Sprotin

Sólgarðurin (2021)

Tann lítli drongurin og beinagrindin (2017)

Beinir Bergsson Sprotin

Lívsins dansur (2020)

Bárður á Lakjuni Sprotin

Eg skrivi á vátt pappír (2020) Lív Maria Róadóttir Jæger Eksil

Skál (2020)

Dania O. Tausen Sprotin

Rakkaljóð (2020)

Gudahøvd (2017) Jóanes Nielsen Sprotin

Whisper of Butterfly Wings (2020)

Kalpana Vijayavarathan Sprotin

Leitanin eftir at vera (2019)

Katarina Nolsøe Sprotin

Úrvalssavn (2019)

Oddfríður M. Rasmussen Sprotin

Korallbruni (2018)

Anna Malan Jógvansdóttir Eksil

Djúpini (2017) Vónbjørt Vang Eksil

Darkening / Myrking (2017)

Sissal Kampmann MS

SHORT STORIES

Tað lovaða landið (2022)

Tann sæla ræðslan (2020) Hanus Kamban Náttarsólin

Kvøl (2021)

Anthology Sprotin

Hult og dult (2021) Jón Thorsteinsson Brúgvin

Í løtuni (2019) Turid Thomsen Sprotin

Virus (2019) Sámal Soll Sprotin

DRAMA

Gentukamarið (2022) Marjun Syderbø Kjælnes Ungu Føroyar

Lykkenborg (2022) Búi Dam Sprotin

Ó, søgur um djevulskap (2021) Daniel Wedel Sprotin

YOUNG ADULT

Ódjór (2022) Silja Aldudóttir BFL

Sólgrátur (2022) Ingun Christensen BFL

Rimarúmið (2021) Elin Michelsen BFL

Tvístøða (2021) Dánial Viðoy Ungu Føroyar

Loynigentan (2021) Tórunn Karina Henriksen BFL

Sum rótskot (2020)

Marjun Syderbø Kjelnæs BFL

Kjarr (2020)

Rakel Helmsdal BFL

CHILDREN

Lítla krákan samlar (2022) Jenny Kjærbo BFL

Abbi og eg og abbi (2021)

Dánial Hoydal BFL

Hilda og Monsi (2021) Ranvør Isholm BFL

Ein Eydnufluga (2022)

Alva og Lias (2021)

Julia og omman (2018)

Tá skrubban fekk heilaskjálvta (2017) Elsubeth M. Fossádal BFL

Langa Lina langomma (2021)

Aðalbjørg J. Linklett BFL

Vinmenn (2021) Árni Dahl BFL Hilbert (2020)

Træið (2017) Bárður Oskarsson BFL

Drongurin sum rópti so illa (2020) Hjalmar Didriksen Apol BFL

Reiggjan (2021)

Loftar tú mær? (2019) Rakel Helmsdal BFL

1-2-3, Fuglafjørður (2019)

Elin á Rógvi BFL

Løgmansdóttirin á Steig (2019)

Húsfrúgvin í Húsavík (2019)

Marin fær ein lítlabeiggja (2019)

Marin og hjartavætturin (2018) Ingun Christensen BFL

Luddi og Lundisa spegla sær (2019)

Luddi og Lundisa (2018)

Vár Berghamar Jacobsen BFL

Marin fær ein lítlabeiggja (2019)

Ingun Christensen BFL

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