Sonhos de Grandeza

Follow the translation in progress to Portuguese by Igor Brito of Pål H. Christiansen novel Drømmer om storhet (The Scoundrel Days of Hobo Highbrow):

  • Capitulo 1-2 pdf : “O outono era definitivamente minha estação. Um momento de reflexão. Um momento de ponderar os grandes questionamentos existenciais. De reiniciar aquilo que eu havia deixado pra trás,quando a primavera me prendeu em sua luz e ao cântico de seus pássaros. Quando escrevi meus melhores trabalhos que não fossem no outono? Sob a luz dispersa de minha velha luminária, vestindo um paletó caseiro, as palavras criavam asas, caindo como a chuva no asfalto escuro lá fora.”
  • Capitulo 3 pdf: “O a-ha sabia. Eles sentiram a apetência análoga às edições modernas de Knut Hamsun em Londres, como ratos entre monturos e extratos da cidade. Viveram na esperança e na certeza de que tinham algo muito grande para a pequena Noruega, como uma força que explodira no peito, a voejar alto sobre o fariasísmo social-democrático da Noruega. É claro que os problemas perfilavam-se, porém eles combatiam-nos. Há quem diga que tratara de sorte. Não para eles. Tinha a ver com talento e como o discernimento de Harket, Furuholmen e Waaktaar foram concebidos num só.”
  • Capitulo 4 pdf:  “- Não viste meus discos do a-ha por aí? – eu disse.
    – Já olhaste debaixo do sofá? – perguntou Haagen, um tanto quanto vago, porém pelo menos teve uma proposta.
    Olhei para onde um dia o sofá lá esteve. Vi um par de meias ímpares cobertas pelo pó e mais alguma coisa semelhante à torradas e queijo de cabra. Ou seria patê de fígado de cerdo? Até onde podia lembrar, eu não tinha tais itens em casa, e também não pretendia ir a fundo no caso.

More soon!

Translator Igor Brito and Paul Waaktaar Savoy.


Title photo: Author Pål H. Christiansen in Ouro Preto, Brazil, 1982.

Fjodor for President

Who do you want?

imagesHillary Clinton?

Donald Trump?






You want                                                                                 img_6362           for President!

-Because he’s nastier.

          -Because he smells like fish.

   -Because he can swim.

            -Because he loves icecream.






Nå flytter Fjodor inn!

Omsider er dagen kommet da Fjodor kan flytte inn i sin egen lille barneforestilling på KulturButikken på Ullevaal Senter! – Dette har jeg ventet på i år og dag. Nå er jeg klar som et egg for å lage noen sprell på scenen 1. oktober, sier den rampete torsken i en kommentar.

Det har gått litt tid siden Ola G. Strømme i O.G. Strømme Centertainment og Pål H. Christiansen ble enige om å starte produksjonen av en barneforestilling bygget på elementer fra de første to bøkene om Fjodor, nemlig Fjodor går bananas og Fjodor i fritt fall. Sammenfallet i tid med lanseringen av boken Sommeren med Fjodor, som utkommer på Cappelen Damm i begynnelsen av november i år er imidlertid perfekt.

– Forestillingen skal jo først og fremst introdusere Fjodor for et  bredt publikum og skal kunne spilles på alle slags arenaer, det være seg kjøpesentre, bibliotek, kulturhus eller i klasserom. Og da passer det godt at premieren kommer litt i forkant av den nye boken, mener forfatteren.

Ola S. AOla S. A


Ola G. Strømme har latt seg inspirere av Fjodor og skrevet stykket Fjodor flytter inn.


Om stykket

Fjodor er en frekk og freidig torsk med en løs finne. Siden Palles pappa er fiskereparatør, har han tatt Fjodor med hjem for reparasjon.


Men mens pappa er på nye oppdrag, må Palle passe på Fjodor. Fjodor kan godt tenke seg å flytte inn og bli en del av familien. Mamma liker definitivt ikke idéen om å ha Fjodor boende på sofaen.

Men den som tror at Palle & Fjodor gir seg lett, får tro om igjen!

Forestillingen er basert på Pål H. Christiansens bøker om den frekke torsken Fjodor utgitt på Cappelen Damm forlag.

Manus: Ola G. Strømme
Originalmusikk: Felix Janosa

Regi: Kine Marie Øglend og Anne-Lise Henningsen
Skuespillere: Kine Marie Øglend og Anne-Lise Henningsen

Passer for alle barnslige over 3 år. Billetter à kr 90 kjøper du i døren.

Mamma er skeptisk

Humle & Honning goes to Germany

It took 15 years from when my poetic and naivistic novel Humle & Honning was published by Tiden Norsk Forlag in Oslo to it finally being translated to German and being published as an e-book by Saga Egmont this year.

I remember when my publisher Tiden Norsk Forlag went to the Frankfurt Book Fair in 2001. They had made big posters of the covers of the two titles they would expose most heavily at the fair. Humle & Honning was one of them. The posters were glued on cardboard, and I wondered how they would manage to bring them all the way by plane to Frankfurt without damaging them.

Hummel und Honig

The publisher had awarded me, the author of Humle & Honning, with their own literature prize that year, Tidenprisen, for authorship and for Humle & Honning especially. This novel doesn’t resemble any other Norwegian novels, really. A quote from the Danish writer Jens August Schades novel „Sie treffen sich, sie lieben sich, und ihr Herz ist voll süßer Musik“ in the start of the book indicates a poetic playfulness, but also a little darkness underneath it all.

I use to call the book a children’s book for grown ups and a romantic novel. In the 80-ties and 90-ties I had translated a heap of romantic Harlekin-novels to Norwegian, and in Humle & Honning the story more or less follows the same standard pattern as in a romance, but the language and the characters are following their own ways completely.

HUMLOVERSETTELSETiden Norsk Forlag didn’t suceed in Frankfurt at that time. I think I saw the big poster later stowed away somewhere in my publisher’s offices, and I regret I didn’t ask them to give it to me so I could take it home with me. Actually the publishing house was going through turbulent times, and I don’t think they had the connections to sell a book like Humle & Honning to the right publisher in Germany or anywhere else…

A few years ago I was on the lookout for a publisher of e-books for my novel Die Ordnung der Worte, published as hardcover in German with Rockbuch/Edel in 2007 and translated by Christine v. Bülow. Another translator, Gabriele Haefs, pointed the Danish publisher Lindhardt & Ringhof in Copenhagen out to me, a publisher who recently had established an imprint for e-books and audio books by Scandinavian authors in German – Saga Egmont. Within short time Die Ordnung der Worte was on the market both as audio book (read by Sebastian Dunkelberg) and eBook.

When this was done I thought the time was due to let Humle & Honning finally be available in German, as eBook first. A test translation was made by Christine Von Bülow some years before and Saga Egmont agreed to let her translate the rest and publish it as eBook first, then probably as audio book later this year.

Saga Egmont is also planning a print-on-demand service for all their their eBook titles. But most of all I would like to get a proper hardcover edition published with a traditional publisher in Germany.

I knew from the start that this book has a great potential with readers abroad, and of course Germany had to be the first stop.


Found in translation-interview with Igor Brito

According to the Brazilian Igor Brito his translation of Pål H. Christiansens novel Drømmer om storhet is being undertaken with great care and affection to all Portuguese language readers in the world. He is trying to approach a language that triggers doubt, curiosity, reflection and inspiration, an invitation to the reader to the universe of words and their various meanings and senses, which is the soul of the book. We had a chat with him just before Christmas about the progress of the work.

– Hi Igor. You have been so kind to work with the translation of Pål H. Christiansens novel Drømmer om storhet in your spare time for a while. Can you give us an update? How much work is left with the translation?

Well, I’ve had a tough time with my teaching responsibilities, other translations, appointments and personal matters that I had to reorganize my schedule. In the meantime, I could read the English and Italian translations of Drømmer om storhet, as well as the original book. It was a profitable and rewarding time because I needed to mature and perfect my skills as a translator, to provide Portuguese language readers a unique experience, honoring the stylistics, pragmatics and symbolism of the three works merged as one, without losing Pål’s essence, which is the seasoning of the Portuguese version for me. From now on I want to work at a good pace. It’s hard to set a deadline for the final result, but I’m working hard to have one chapter done every two or three weeks.

Igor og PWS

 -You have been learning quite a bit of Norwegian during the recent years. Do you find Norwegian difficult? What is really different from Portuguese?

Portuguese is a Romance language and Norwegian is Germanic. They are in different branches of the great tree of language, but they belong to the same root of this tree. Both Portuguese and Norwegian are Indo-European languages, and both suffered great influence of Latin and Greek. I don’t know exactly how each linguistic phenomenon occurred in the course of time, but they share many morphological and phonetic similarities, as seen in words like interessant, trist, gravid, ferie and dozens more, and have similar isochrony in their syllables. I’d not say difficult is the right word. I consider written Norwegian more tangible than spoken Norwegian. Learners need some time to master listening skills.

– What challenges have you met in the translation of the novel?

When a literary work is translated into another language, it is necessary to use many linguistic resources, since every language has its own way of expressing themselves. That’s when stylistics, pragmatics and symbolism come in because there are parameters or paradigms, and nuances that may or may not sound good to a certain word, phrase or even a whole thought compared to the other language.

  – Can you describe why this novel should be interesting for the Portuguese reading audience?

Drømmer om storhet has Waaktaar-Savoy as the core and foundation for the unfolding of the plot, highlighting his mastery with words and how he was the driving force and inspiration for the turning point in Hobo’s life. In particular, Brazilians have huge admiration for Waaktaar-Savoy’s work, and I believe that his image linked to a novel will bring attention to Portuguese language readers, not only in Brazil, but also other Portuguese speaking countries.

-Apart from the Waaktar-Savoy theme, what qualities in the novel would you point at for any reader of fiction as such?

Soth America 1982

Pål H.  Christiansen and Hobo seem to be the same persona when you go through the novel. He embodies Hobo’s saga in his writing with such passion and creativity that both seem to have the same dream. We can sum up the novel as the pursuit for dreams through the making of words as an art form as though they were paintings or pottery. Pål was so avant-garde with the stylistics and his own features in the book that it would make a very sophisticated prose-poetry work. Without any doubt, Drømmer om storhet is source of inspiration for anyone who can make life worth living and has the words as a mighty weapon to create or change anything for better.

 – It still remains to find a publisher for the work. What are the chances in Brazil you think?

Perhaps this question is the most difficult of all. A short-term speculation would be dishonest of my own. In this digital age, you need to analyze a number of pros and cons, and cost-benefit to release a physical book, especially in the case of Brazil, which has very little appeal and incentive to the purchase of books. For now, my intention is to publish chapter by chapter on social networks and spread the work, to see the public acceptance. Once the translation is completed and proofread, we’ll see what happens.


Sommerkampanje 210628596_710086055733520_3438346252888955567_n


Portuguese translation in progress



Igor Brito is making progress with his translation of Drømmer om storhet to Portuguese. We are happy to present chapter III of Sonhos de Grandeza, where Hobo Highbrow is reflecting about being a struggling artist – just like Magne, Pål and Morten of a-ha in their early days in London. Here are Igor Britos own words on the translation of Drømmer om storhet (Sonhos de Grandeza) to Portuguese:

“Este trabalho está sendo feito de com todo o cuidado e carinho para todos os leitores em língua portuguesa do mundo. Estou tentando abordar uma linguagem que cause dúvida, curiosidade, reflexão e inspiração, um convite ao leitor para o universo das palavras e seus significados variados, que é a essência do livro.”

“This work is being undertaken with great care and affection to all Portuguese language readers in the world. I’m trying to approach a language that triggers doubt, curiosity, reflection and inspiration, an invitation to the reader to the universe of words and their various meanings and senses, which is the soul of the book.”

For chapter 1-2 and chapter 3 of Sonhos de Grandeza and other news about fan translations read here


Demo av første Fjodor-sang på norsk

Etter utallige oppfordringer og mas fra Fjodor deler vi herved demoen av den norske versjonen av Felix Janosas Fjodorsang “Reparieren” fra “Fjodor flipp aus” (Fjodor går bananas).

Denne ble tryllet frem i studioet til Geir Bremer Øvrebø for noen år tilbake. Norsk tekst ved Pål H. Christiansen og sang ved Geir Bremer Øvrebø.


Bakgrunnsmusikken er den originale fra den tyske innspillingen. Et stjernelag av musikere har bidratt på innspillingene av de 18 Fjodorsangene som er produsert så langt, blant dem Ian Melrose (gitar og fløyter) og Manfred Leuchter (trekkspill), foruten Felix Janosa selv på tangenter.

Allede syv sangene til den første av de tre tyske musikalbøkene om Fjodor har blitt oversatt av Pål H. Christiansen med det mål å få laget en norsk musikalbokversjon av Fjodor går bananas – i første omgang.


The Highbrow archives: First Hobo-text (1989)

From Pål H. Christiansen novel “Harry var ikke ved sine fulle fem“, Gyldendal Norsk Forlag 1989

Translation by Ingerid White


I am not very good at crossing streets in the full light of day, when the traffic is heavy and there are a lot of things going on in the city.  It’s then that I can stand transfixed on the first white stripe of a street crossing, or squeezed between the bumpers of two parked cars as I look over toward the other sidewalk with what I expect someone would call a spellbound expression on my face. In the big city I normally conducted my life in sync with the cars.  I let the sidewalks guide me to the traffic lights, where small green men are employed to lead me safely across the street.

Today I walk straight across, without looking in either direction.  A large delivery truck approaches from the left.  I see it out of the corner of my eye when I’m in the middle of the street.  The driver shouts at the top of his lungs, his wheels screech, and his horn blasts some hoarse sounds that remind me of another time on a foreign continent, and as these memories flash through my mind, I walk on.  I must admit that I was a bit startled when I saw that the car had stopped where I’d been just an instant before, but now I’m on the other side of the street, on the sidewalk actually, and see no reason to turn around.  I am on an errand and cannot stop to see what might have happened if I now lay plastered to the window of a delivery truck.

I continue straight ahead and through a door.  Then up a couple of steps and through some hallways.  I keep going until an office worker stops me.

“Wait a moment. Mr. . . . ?”

“The name is Highbrow,” I say.  “I have an appointment with the publisher.”

“He’s busy at the moment.  Would you like to have a seat and wait?”

I sink into a chair with the suitcase safely clamped between my legs.

“I’m here to deliver a manuscript,” I say.

“There are plenty who try,” she says, and looks more closely at me.  “Have you been here before?”

“Highbrow.  Hobo Highbrow,” I reply.

“Now I remember you,” she says.  “It was you who wrote the book on the herring fisheries in the Barents Sea.”

I stand up.  I’ve had enough.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“To the john,” I reply.

I walk straight ahead toward a large, closed door that opens just as I am a few yards short of it, and a man walks through.  I have never seen the man before.  He’s about 30 years old, dark blond hair, average height, horn-rimmed glasses, and looks as if he’s just been told his book has been accepted and that it will be translated in 14 languages immediately.  He looks as if he has a large advance in his breast pocket and Theatre Cafe is lighting up his eyes.  He smiles confidently at me.  I nod briefly and whiz into the publisher’s office.

He has just opened a window and headed for his desk.  He looks at me with those sharp eyes of his.

“You?” he says, with as much enthusiasm as if I were a casual lover who has now suddenly and inconveniently shown up in his life again.

I don’t have a chance to answer, because I stumble on a wrinkle in the carpet and fall.  The suitcase flies out of my hand and sails up into the air.  It opens up, and white pages sift down like snow, just as a breeze blows in and takes a good number of them out the window.

But what is it that is blending into all that white?  Something gray and glistening has crept far out of a plastic bag and is gliding in a long arc toward the publisher’s desk!

“Close the window, for God’s sake,” I yelled.  But the publisher has taken refuge under his desk, and there’s little hope of help from there.  It seems as if he’s sitting there, passively and deliberately, while my papers are being sucked out the window.

I crawl on the floor to the window and manage to close it.  The papers fall, as one, like snow and arrange themselves in a thin layer over the entire room.

“What is this, may I ask?”

The publisher has appeared again.  He is pointing to that which is lying littering the desk.

For the first time in my life, I don’t manage to say the word that otherwise runs like Cod Liver Oil out of my mouth.  “It is a . . .,” I say.

“A what?”

“A . . .”


“It is a haddock,” I say.



The light bounces off his eyeglasses.  “This is actually a cod fish.”

‘My God,’ I think.  ‘Does the man think I’m stupid?’

But it seems as if the publisher had already made up his mind about something, before I’d even come through the door.  I see it in his eyes.  It’s as if someone has decided to count me out.  Him and the guy I’d met on the way in, perhaps.

“What in the hell is this?” I ask.  “A plot?”

I get down on all fours and gather up the papers that haven’t been blown out of the window.  The relationship between a publisher and a writer must rest on trust, but already at this early and vulnerable stage the publisher has decided I’m dumb.  I cannot let a man take charge of my book who thinks I don’t know the difference between a haddock and a cod fish – a book, incidentally, that with a little puff of wind has been reduced by two-thirds.

I stuff all the papers into the satchel.  The cod fish finds its way back into its plastic bag.  It looks a little the worse for wear, but now we will be going straight to a café and have ourselves a drink.

I turn in the doorway and look at the publisher.  “I know a word that begins with the letter ‘k’ and rhymes with haddock,” I say.  That word describes you.

The office worker looks at me coldly as I leave.

“Who was that arrogant shithead who came in before me?” I ask.

“They say he is promising,” she answers.

“No,” I say, and put my hands over my ears. “I don’t want to hear it; don’t want to hear it!”

“Kristiansen,” she says.

“What?” I ask.  “Never heard of him.  With a ‘C’ or a ‘K’?”

“With a ‘Ch’,” she answers.


In front of the café I stop and peer in through a window.  I’m looking for Higgins.  The windows are filthy.  I write my name on the window pane, but rub it out with the back of my hand, making a little clear space to look through.  I wipe the muck on my pants and take a look.  Higgins is standing in there behind the counter.

He doesn’t see me come in.  He’s standing with his back to me, doing something.  Music is streaming out of speakers on the walls.  When I get nearer, I see what he’s doing.  He’s making open-faced sandwiches.  He’s swaying his hips gently in time with the music.

He doesn’t seem surprised to see me.  I find the reason why in the mirror over the sink.

“Ready?” asks Higgins.

“Absolutely,” I say.  “It’s finished.”

“How many pages was it?”

“I don’t know.  They’re scattered by the wind, most of them now,” I answer, and explain.

Higgins pours port into two glasses.

“Skaal,” he says.

“Skaal,” I say.

“You should have better luck at a different publisher.”

“Ha!” I say.

“Do you have a copy of your manuscript?”

“No,” I say.

“My condolences,” says Higgins.

“Thank you,” I say.

And so we drink.  I take the cod fish out of the satchel.

“Do you have something for this one?  Does he need something strong?”

“I recommend a bath.”

“Anything will do.  Water, I know, is something he’s familiar with.”

Higgins laid the fish under running water in the wash basin.

“What now?” he asked.

“Yes, what now?” I said.

“You’re not giving up, are you?”

“Maybe my time as a writer is past.  Maybe I must find something else to do.  I could be a bus driver instead of Henry.’

“Or work in a café in the capitol,” said Higgins.

“But you do that yourself.”

“Or a factory worker.”

“But where, then?”

“In a factory,” suggested Higgins.


I hesitate for a moment outside the café.  I have the satchel in my hand, and there lies the cod fish, once again in its bag.  I had asked Higgins if he wanted it, but he had nowhere to keep it, he said.  The guy clearly didn’t like cod fish, either.

“What now?  Shall I go up the street, or down?”

A sheet of paper blows past me down the street towards the park.  I grip the satchel and pad after it.  It’s a nice day, after all.  In spite of the wind.  In spite of the cod fish.  In the park, I sit down and gaze at the blue sky.

The paper had gotten hung up in some bushes, but the wind has torn it lose, and it’s now actually making its way toward me, ending up my feet.

“Hey!” it says.

“Shut up,” I say.  “I want to be alone.”

“Won’t you pick me up?” it says.  “It is you, after all, who has written on me.”

“No.” I say, kicking it away.

The ducks down by the pond have gathered together in a corner.  It looks as if they are in some way or other in deliberation over something.  Now they are walking altogether in a flock over to me.

I tell them like it is, that I don’t have any bread for them.  “Not a dried-out little scrap of crust,” I say.  Maybe they don’t believe me?

It doesn’t look as if they do.  They press close to me and look at me with those empty eyes of theirs.  Do they intend to kill me?

“If you don’t believe me,” I say, “I can open my satchel and take out my underwear, and the papers you can’t read, that aren’t especially useful to ducks.”

Their bills are rooting around in my hands when I flip open the lock and uncover the plastic bag with the long object inside.

‘Aha!’ I think.  ‘Cod fish and ducks, hand in hand.’

I let the cod fish slide out of the bag behind the bench, close the satchel, and leave without a glance back.  I don’t stop before I’m standing outside the entrance door to a brick house, staring at a large panel of buzzers.  One of them is mine.


The Highbrow archives: The Origin of Hobo

“The funniest debut novel I can remember to have read ever,” the Norwegian critic and essayist Henning Hagerup wrote in his review of “Harry var ikke ved sine fulle fem” way back in 1989. Hobo Highbrow from “Drømmer om storhet” (2002), appeared as one of several main characters in this book. 

1265951_10201833085497184_376324084_oLooking back to the end of the 1980-ties it’s hard to imagine that Hobo Highbrow, the protagonist of “Drømmer om storhet” (The scoundrel days of Hobo Highbrow), started out being just a name appearing in a piece of short prose that developed into my first novel «Harry var ikke ved sine fulle fem».

The novel was published in 1989 with Gyldendal Norsk Forlag. At this time I was living in Risør, a small town on the south coast of Norway, and I can still remember the moment the editor at Gyldendal, Oddvar Aurstad, called from Oslo and said that my manuscript was accepted.

Some of the shorte prose from the manuscript had already been published in the litery magazine Vagant the year before, and some more were accepted by Lars Saabye Christensen to be published in the antology Signaler later in 1989.


The first draft of this manuscript, at that point a collection of short prose where all characters had names starting with an H, was handed over to the publisher the year before. And since they liked my writing, they wanted me to develop the manuscript.

My response to this was to incorporate the collection of short prose into a kind of post modernistic, chinese box type of novel. This novel was a play with genres and writing styles and identities that tranformed. It started out as a detective novel where the detective is searching for the author of a short prose collection called “Harry var ikke ved sine fulle fem”.

The author’s name is Hobo Highbrow, a not so succesful writer, who in the final pages is trying to deliver his manuscript at his publisher, before he ends up before an apartment building, the same building he is moving from in “Drømmer om storhet”.

The cover illustration of “Harry var ikke ved sine fulle fem” is a painting by Nicolas de Stäel, the favourite painter of the writer. The painting belongs to Henie Onstad Art Museum, Høvikodden.





Iwona Lustofin ma swoje własne marzenia o wielkości

Iwona Lustofin ma swoje własne marzenia o wielkości w świecie pisarstwa. Na tej drodze do gwiazd w swoim wolnym czasie przetłumaczyła książkę «Drømmer om storhet» autora Påla H. Christiansena na jezyk polski.

Iwona LustofinIwona (26) mieszka w Będzinie (Polska). Aktualnie odbywa staż w biurze rachunkowym. Na szczęście ukończyła tłumaczenie jeszcze przed podjęciem stażu.  Szkic tłumaczenia został stworzony głownie na podstawie angielskiej wersji książki «The Scoundrel Days of Hobo Highbrow».

– Gratulacje, Iwona. Jestem pod wrażeniem. Jak długo zajęły tłumaczenia?

– Tłumaczenie zajęło ogólnie około 3-4 miesięcy. Myślę, że to była ta łatwa część. Tłumaczenie książki, któtąktoś już napisał jest naprawdę łatwe. Ale napisanie samej historii jest jak ekstremalnie trudny trick cyrkowy. Tak więc te 3-4 miesiące siedzenia i tłumaczenia opowieści nie było takie ciężkie.

– Naprawdę było tak łatwo?

– Myślę, że wiedziałam już sporo rzeczy. Znałam dobrze język angielski. I wierzyłam, że potrafię skupić się na kilku rzeczach na raz. Teraz myślę, że moja wiara w wielozadaniowość była jak przekonanie, że potrafię jeździć na kocie. Dzięki tłumaczeniu wiele rzeczy stało się wyraźniejszych. Teraz widzę dokładnie, jak wiele trzeba włożyć w napisanie histori i jak wiele z siebie trzeba dać by było możliwe przedrzeć się z książką poza granice kraju autora.Hobo polsk

– Jakich innych rzeczy nauczyłaś się podczas pracy?

– Napewno nauczyłam się konsekwencji pisania. I tego by skupiać się tylko na jednej rzeczy na raz, bo tworzenie kilku opowieści w tym samym czasie tworzy wyłącznie chaos w głowie. Historia Hobo nauczyła mnie by nie odkładać pisania i by nie przekoloryzować idei. Czasami praca jest perfekcyjna taka, jaka jest. Z innej strony, nauczyłam się też nie skupiać na największym możliwym sukcesie. Nie chcę Nagrody Nobla. Chciałabym tylko widzieć innych doceniających mnie przez lata poprzez czytanie moich prac.

– Więc jakie masz teraz plany?

– Nie chcę marzyć na jawie o tym co dalej stanie sie z tłumaczeniem. Czas pokaże. Pracuję też nad swoją debiutancką książką. Tak, jedna książka na raz. Nawet jeśli różne pomysły dotyczące innych projektów krążą mi po głowie od czasu do czasu. Spisuję tylko powierzchowny pomysł i odkładam go na lepszy moment.

Sen o wielkości

Translation to polish in progress