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One of the foremost writers of her generation explores the strength and pain of being young
As winter approaches in Norway and the daylight dwindles, a chance encounter prompts a novelist to reexamine her past. The seismic events following her sixteenth birthday return with haunting vividness, exposing a story both utterly familiar and desperately strange.
It was the year she first got drunk, the year she first had sex with a boy. She was watched like a hawk by an anxious mother and a silent, distant father. It was a year of typical teenage fixation and typical teenage frivolity, and of all the usual parental fretting. Until something else took hold, and her family made an unspoken decision and a terrible sacrifice. Only now, decades later, can these events come close to being comprehended.
In Repetition, award-winning novelist Vigdis Hjorth explores through fiction the parts of childhood that chime through the decades.
Hjorth writes with the feminist bluntness of Annie Ernaux, the psychic precision of Javier Marías and the lyrical repetitions of Jon Fosse.
For Freud the ‘compulsion to repeat,’ as he called it, was an unconscious expression of what had been repressed by memory. Here, Hjorth brings that compulsion to life in prose, making the reader feel, at once, the desire to remember and the desire to forget, which battle it out on the field of memory. The novel’s explosive power comes from the tension between those competing desires, and its suspense comes from the presence of the unnamed trauma, which sits outside the family’s house like a hungry beast in the darkness…If Will and Testament shows us the process by which a repressed truth rises to the surface, Repetition shows us how it gets repressed.
This slim, powerful novel could be spoiled by too much information, but lingering too long on the 60-something narrator’s encounter with a teenager that makes her remember her own teenaged self — seems too simple. The title matters both as style and theme, as the unnamed woman recalls the past with uncanny accuracy. As she says, 'I repeat and recall and relive and retell and redress because. . . [the] future is an ongoing process.'
Repetition offers [Hjorth's] most sustained attempt to imagine the parents’ morally compromised existence... In the absence of a good officialdom that can help children, Hjorth offers a good witch who can hold them.
Hjorth writes sublimely about the wonder and subjugation of life as a teenager—what it feels like to be a girl with friends, to live in a place that’s lovely even in the cold and the dark. And she can be very funny ... Repetition is a powerful sliver of a book—it really doesn’t have enough pages to contain as much life as it does. It transcends the trauma plot by, counterintuitively, immersing us completely in the past: not in one devastating event, but in the whole past, of moment after moment. Terrible things happen in families, in history, Hjorth seems to be saying, but that’s not so remarkable. What’s remarkable is that these people, who used to be us, existed—that, day after day, they actually lived like this.
A novel about the power of memory, as well as writing, empathy, and imagination, Repetition enacts the kind of reckoning with our past selves that we might have should we be brave enough to return to them.
This slim new translation from Verso is classic Hjorth: a deceptively simple family story unfolds into dark and painful corners. Told in direct in introspective prose, Hjorth is able to conjure the creaky overconfidence of adolescence and all its uncertainties.
Vigdis Hjorth’s novels are like major fires, destructive and difficult to contain.
Vigdis Hjorth is one of my favorite contemporary writers.
Hjorth writes vividly of the narrator’s teenage confusion and pain, and her lifelong search for comfort. [Repetition] swells with emotion.
Hjorth’s Repetition is as concerned with repression and the unconscious as it is a manifesto on the power of writing.
Adolescent memories provoke a chronology of embedded emotions in this eloquent, penetrating novel.
Far from lightweight ... A short but seismic read with shades of Annie Ernaux.