tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57259679812183034702024-03-13T22:01:47.577-07:00Danish AccentHumorous travelblog and website for Peter H. Fogtdal, author, raccoon lover, human being. Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-48899252940986151722024-01-07T13:17:00.000-08:002024-01-07T13:42:59.633-08:00Denmark for Dummies 2024: A Superficial Introduction to the Greatest Nation in the Universe (Except for Legoland Perhaps)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ncId_VVyWMXl9OZzJ8LtQ1BgfozRHus4Mki1H3ChoxXlV2H_yopT71iV0lGxmae8sbwil2pRtZvgEkXo4vgwHFh8gSsCcbf_2-7H4DHmfYivzqvmKFQRF0LnB72oQ01H7EMiNc2UXhoNxwcXUnuWvNpxvFTNJzUtvQ6Qfug56ELVrnh5Ggg_oUOC4mcE/s4032/00%202023%20CPH%20Nyhavn%20best.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ncId_VVyWMXl9OZzJ8LtQ1BgfozRHus4Mki1H3ChoxXlV2H_yopT71iV0lGxmae8sbwil2pRtZvgEkXo4vgwHFh8gSsCcbf_2-7H4DHmfYivzqvmKFQRF0LnB72oQ01H7EMiNc2UXhoNxwcXUnuWvNpxvFTNJzUtvQ6Qfug56ELVrnh5Ggg_oUOC4mcE/w300-h400/00%202023%20CPH%20Nyhavn%20best.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /> You're smart.<p></p><br />You're planning to visit the only Scandinavian country that matters.<br /><br />Yes, admit it, you've always wanted to go to Denmark much more than Sweden because the Danes invented the atomic bomb and <i>hygge</i>. You tell yourself, "Why would I want to go to the Italian Alps when I can go rock climbing on Lolland? I'm trendy, I want to ride my bike with the xenophobic Danes because they're the happiest people in the world." <br /><br />Actually, that's not true anymore. The suicidal Finns have repeatedly beaten us the last few years, but unlike them the Danes always make the news for <i>positive</i> reasons, like killing healthy minks, or harassing refugees at the border.<br /><br />So, come and visit us, will you? And please bring your credit cards because God knows you're going to need them!<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-B5tektkps76pBBL460cWzIVVNOmlOKg54AS0wv13eigG_03IHqNVSoHibTQtCNtqOK7Q6A64hxeIFNipEqXDw8DuhEBjjL1751TC0pHTORyjVZDno_HLrUdx76j_MHs2ic4odYF7uR_1dgX1zFTasXJ1by0BLnsuCMjqkhRv7xbZsrjti0poUruzda_1/s2918/01%202021%20DK%20stor%20Jyllinge%20stor%20fjordudsigt%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2918" data-original-width="2819" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-B5tektkps76pBBL460cWzIVVNOmlOKg54AS0wv13eigG_03IHqNVSoHibTQtCNtqOK7Q6A64hxeIFNipEqXDw8DuhEBjjL1751TC0pHTORyjVZDno_HLrUdx76j_MHs2ic4odYF7uR_1dgX1zFTasXJ1by0BLnsuCMjqkhRv7xbZsrjti0poUruzda_1/w386-h400/01%202021%20DK%20stor%20Jyllinge%20stor%20fjordudsigt%20(2).jpg" width="386" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> GUIDE TO DENMARK</b></span><br /><b> </b><br /><br /><b>Name in Danish:</b> Danmark<br /><br /><b>Inhabitants:</b> 5.8 million<br /><br /><b><b>Size:</b> </b>The 8th biggest country in the world if you count Greenland. (Always count Greenland)<b></b><br /><br /><b>Capital:</b> Copenhagen, Copenaghen, Kopenhagen, Copenhague, København (1.5 million)<br /><br /><b>Ranking:</b> Most Livable City in the World (Monocle, British Magazine, 2008, 2013, 2014)<br /><br /><b>Other Top Rankings That We Take Pride In:</b><br />a) Most Trusting People<br />b) Average Consumption of Beer (Fourth<i> </i>highest<i> </i>in the world)<br />c) Crime per Capita: Fourth lowest in the world<br />d) Best Government in the World (2014)<br />e) Second Best Country for Women (beating Saudi Arabia?)<br />f) Second Best Country for Singles Traveling Alone with a Danish Flag on Their Rucksack<br />g) Lonely Planet's Top Destination in 2019, Copenhagen.<br />h) Least Corrupt Country in the World (We bribed us to that)<div>i) Best Neighborhood in the World: Norrebro, Copenhagen (Time Out, 2021) <br />j) Second Most Livable City in the World, 2023: Copenhagen<br />k) Third Best Government in the World, 2022 Unless You're a Mink<br /><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Language:</b> Guttural.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-c8Y4dTZuGHQ/WPfpKk-DA1I/AAAAAAAAEjQ/y5hMeCWsQGku1XHsBYTLdgQ2M4HHT6LQQCLcB/s1600/Danish%2BDutch%2BDuh.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-c8Y4dTZuGHQ/WPfpKk-DA1I/AAAAAAAAEjQ/y5hMeCWsQGku1XHsBYTLdgQ2M4HHT6LQQCLcB/w400-h400/Danish%2BDutch%2BDuh.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><b>Government:</b> Constitutional monarchy.<br /><br /><b>Currency:</b> Kroner. (6.70 DKK to a US dollar, 0.04 to the Angolan Kwanza)<br /><br /><b>Religion:</b> No, thank you.<br /><br /><b>Name of Our New King Who Got Popular When He Married a Girl from Tasmania He Met When He Was Drunk in an Australian Pub:</b> Frederik X (2024-?)<br /><br /><b>Name of Prime Minister:</b> Mette Frederiksen</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Famous Living Danes You Should Know If You Want Us to Respect You:</b> Mads Mikkelsen, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau (actors), Christian Eriksen (soccer player with a heartbeat), Lars von Trier (enfant terrible), Lars Ulrich (founder of Metallica), Viktor Axelsen (world's best badminton player), Helena Christensen (ex-model), Peter Schmeichel and Michael Laudrup (soccer players back when we were worth watching), Caroline Wozniacki (ex-tennis player), Lukas Graham (singer), and Margrethe Vestager (best friends of Google and Facebook) </div><div><br /><b>Famous Half Danes That We Damn Well Refuse to Call American:</b> Viggo Mortensen, Scarlett Johansson<br /><br /><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-size: 16px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><b>Famous Dead Danes You Should Mourn Now:</b> Hans Christian Andersen (author), Søren Kierkegaard (philosopher), King Canute (conquered England), Tycho Brahe (conquered the universe), Isak Dinesen (conquered Africa), Karen Blixen (conquered Meryl Streep), Vitus Bering (explorer who had a strait named after him), Niels Bohr (physicist), Hamlet (Shakespeare's boy toy)</div><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /><b>Danish Anti Heroes: </b>Struensee and Raheem Sterling who flobbed during extra time and won England a ridiculous penalty in the semifinal against us in the European Championship in football in 2021.</div><div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rBHsrIcKOyk/Wz5dWj5XoPI/AAAAAAAAE3U/e_esBSGyuwYEWX8En45SufYColHrxDAxACLcBGAs/s1600/Madman%2Bfodboldfan_LI.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="937" height="385" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rBHsrIcKOyk/Wz5dWj5XoPI/AAAAAAAAE3U/e_esBSGyuwYEWX8En45SufYColHrxDAxACLcBGAs/s400/Madman%2Bfodboldfan_LI.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><b>Biggest Selling Pop Song of All Time:</b> 7 Years by Lukas Graham (Grammy nominated for Record and Song of the Year in 2017 but beaten by a slightly unknown singer named Adele)<br /><br /><b>Danish Imperialism:</b> Lego, Maersk, Ecco, Vesta, Bang and Olufsen, Carlsberg, Tuborg, <br /><br /><b>Best Danish Word We Like to Shove Down Your Throat: </b><i>Hygge</i>.<i> (P</i>lease don't embarrass yourself by trying to pronounce the word. We don't want to laugh at you)</div><div><div><br /></div><div><b>Best Danish Word You Shouldn't Teach Your Children: </b>Listepik</div><br /><b>Most Important Nicety You Need to Say Unless You Want to be Considered Rude or Russian:</b> Tak for sidst<br /><br /><b>What Does 'Tak for Sidst' Mean? </b>You wouldn't understand, anyway.<br /><br /><b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Far East:</b> Badminton<br /><br /><b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Middle East:</b> Vintage cartoons from 2005 that didn't go down very well.<br /><br /><b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in the UK:</b> Bacon and bikes.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2jZiv3gTp-Uz5BcK1iYUZiQkDrsQyTvv6drMkHJbR66oT2EQ3nOu6d3QEyFjZvLPvzymnhm4blkzM1js-nmCNz9y8wCshLsN2eSS97mjRu0WunWEbb1L4nhO5EZdPaEV_KUB2CH8B44SZktfRBuH4yQDLgXQkR7zWZhbcSUpTtsI1UHb829z4JrnjXg=s2766" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2766" data-original-width="2087" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2jZiv3gTp-Uz5BcK1iYUZiQkDrsQyTvv6drMkHJbR66oT2EQ3nOu6d3QEyFjZvLPvzymnhm4blkzM1js-nmCNz9y8wCshLsN2eSS97mjRu0WunWEbb1L4nhO5EZdPaEV_KUB2CH8B44SZktfRBuH4yQDLgXQkR7zWZhbcSUpTtsI1UHb829z4JrnjXg=w301-h400" width="301" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>Most Important Danish Invention of All Time:</b> The atomic bomb (Niels Bohr with a tiny bit of help from Oppenheimer)<br /><br /><b>Second Most Important Invention of All Time: </b>Lego<br /><br /><b>Third Most Important Invention That Actually Wasn't Invented in Denmark But We Don't Mind Taking Credit for It Anyway: </b>Danish pastry (Thanks, Vienna)<b><br /></b><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NmC1yL3-nhY/WPfteV0C3rI/AAAAAAAAEjo/Mk2OybZU_78sXUMA-nrJd2cB4dFSopMOgCLcB/s1600/022%2BFrederiksborg%2Bslot.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NmC1yL3-nhY/WPfteV0C3rI/AAAAAAAAEjo/Mk2OybZU_78sXUMA-nrJd2cB4dFSopMOgCLcB/s400/022%2BFrederiksborg%2Bslot.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><b>Best Tourist Attraction If You're into Knights in Shining Armor:</b> Frederiksborg castle (Hillerød) <br /><br /><b>Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eight Years Old:</b> Legoland<br /><br /><b>Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eighty Years Old:</b> Tivoli<br /><br /><b>Most Overrated Tourist Attraction:</b> The Little Mermaid<br /><br /> <span style="font-size: 12.48px;"> </span><br /><b>Time of Glory I:</b> When the Danish Vikings conquered England in the 11th century.<br /><br /><b>Time Of Glory II:</b> When Denmark won the European Championship in football in 1992 beating the Germans 2-0 in the final, and the whole country behaved like a frat party.<br /><br /><b>Most Awesome Cities in Denmark Apart from Copenhagen:</b> Helsingør (Elsinore), Ærøskøbing, Faaborg, Ebeltoft, Ribe, Silkeborg, Skagen, Svaneke, Svendborg, Gudhjem, and Christiania (if you still think bean bag chairs are cool)<br /><br /><b>Best Time to Visit the Land of the Danes: </b>From late May to early September.<br /><br /><b>Best Month to Commit Suicide Because It's Dark, Dreary, and Everybody Wish They Were in Thailand:</b> January<br /><br /><b>Most Patriotic Sacrifice for the Motherland to Make Sure Our Superior Gene Pool Survives: </b>Do It for Denmark<b><br /></b><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jki982gGaic/WPbYhOgJheI/AAAAAAAAEiY/KD_87v21jqgF9hnQbODAxoUoiC_gRhP2gCLcB/s1600/Baby%2Bboom.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jki982gGaic/WPbYhOgJheI/AAAAAAAAEiY/KD_87v21jqgF9hnQbODAxoUoiC_gRhP2gCLcB/s400/Baby%2Bboom.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><b> </b><br /><br /><b>Best Danish Traits:</b> Tolerance, sense of humor, informality<br /><br /><b>Worst Danish Traits: </b>Intolerance, sarcasm, xenophobia, also known as <i>hyggeracisme </i>(don't look that up, please)<br /><br /><b>What </b><b>You'll Miss If You're an American Visiting Denmark:</b><span> TV anchors with perfect teeth</span><br /><br /><b>What You'll Miss the Most If You're Norwegian:</b> Norway<br /><br /><b>Most Stupid Thing Ever to Say to a Dane:</b> Now, which part of Germany are you from again?<br /><br /><b>Second Most Stupid Thing Ever to Say to a Dane:</b> Sweden is my favorite Scandinavian country.</div><div><br /> </div><div>We can't wait to welcome you to the Land of the Danes. But please don't cut off the head of the Little Mermaid. That's getting so old!</div><div><br /></div><div>....</div><div><span>Winner of </span><a href="http://www.denmark.net/jazz">www.Denmark.net's</a><span> International Contest, 2009. </span>Copyright, Peter H. Fogtdal, Danish Accent, 2008, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2016, 2018, and onwards until I get tired of it.</div><div><br />All pictures are taken by me. You're welcome to share but please credit me if you quote anything from here.<br /><br />:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::</div>Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-54544652418172028972020-09-05T20:22:00.029-07:002020-09-05T20:22:00.381-07:00Advice for Overthinkers: A Humorous Video Poem from My Crimes of Gelato <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KFExFgaWxr8/XsyMYpofPdI/AAAAAAAAFQs/BB6sSPLTAx4okC76XeOY5_Ztl_rqlBxGACPcBGAYYCw/s1600/Advice%2Bfor%2BOverthinkers%2B%2528A%2BPoem%2Bfrom%2BMy%2BCrimes%2Bof%2BGelato%2529.mp4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="179" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KFExFgaWxr8/XsyMYpofPdI/AAAAAAAAFQs/BB6sSPLTAx4okC76XeOY5_Ztl_rqlBxGACPcBGAYYCw/s320/Advice%2Bfor%2BOverthinkers%2B%2528A%2BPoem%2Bfrom%2BMy%2BCrimes%2Bof%2BGelato%2529.mp4" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">You can read more about my poetry and photo collection here. It's available in paperback and eBook/Kindle. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">A lot of the poems are inspired by my travels around the world including Damascus, Syria; Lviv, Ukraine; Varanasi, India; New York City, USA; Venice, Italy, Bangkok, Thailand, and Transylvania. </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B085FS3WFR/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tkin_p1_i1" style="text-align: left;">https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B085FS3WFR/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tkin_p1_i1</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2NsGIcVYp6I/X1LuJWsSVtI/AAAAAAAAFV4/XwFLlnWFoP0yNidEiyz-Fp-2yoSDxtstQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/2020%2BMY%2BCRIMES_OF_GELATO_cover_21.2..jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2NsGIcVYp6I/X1LuJWsSVtI/AAAAAAAAFV4/XwFLlnWFoP0yNidEiyz-Fp-2yoSDxtstQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/2020%2BMY%2BCRIMES_OF_GELATO_cover_21.2..jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">#travelpoetry #travelpoems #spirituality #spiritualpoems #humorouspoetry #lviv #venezia #transylvania #overthinking #travelphotos #travelphotography</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-21841851277920687632020-07-04T08:38:00.000-07:002020-07-09T15:45:48.952-07:00Angel Gift (A Poem From My New Uplifting Poetry Collection 'My Crimes of Gelato')<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xjSPE4zo6Kk/XwCa_YkN6EI/AAAAAAAAFT4/QRmNX1lwop4JxHRY8sH7UjZTn_TnNJYHgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Angel%2BGift.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="999" data-original-width="1600" height="248" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xjSPE4zo6Kk/XwCa_YkN6EI/AAAAAAAAFT4/QRmNX1lwop4JxHRY8sH7UjZTn_TnNJYHgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Angel%2BGift.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">ANGEL GIFT</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Sometimes the veil</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">is so thin</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br />that angels descend<br />in the morning sun<br />carrying gifts<br /><br />Mountains<br />save lives<br />in majestic twilight<br /><br />Lakes<br />carry thoughts<br />with lucid laughter<br /><br />Meadows<br />dance into you<br />if only you let them<br /><br />And for a second<br />our hearts become part<br />of the universal chest</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jGMSiX5aDq4/XwCbj0dtHUI/AAAAAAAAFUA/z4b7nCV30bYI8N3T73xb1euD4kFswmpEACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/2020%2BMY%2BCRIMES_OF_GELATO_cover_21.2.%2B%25282%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="653" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jGMSiX5aDq4/XwCbj0dtHUI/AAAAAAAAFUA/z4b7nCV30bYI8N3T73xb1euD4kFswmpEACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/2020%2BMY%2BCRIMES_OF_GELATO_cover_21.2.%2B%25282%2529.jpeg" width="271" /></a></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">'My Crimes of Gelato' is uplifting, spiritual, and humorous poetry for a world in crisis. Now available on Amazon in Kindle, E-book, and paperback. </span><br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">.....</span>Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-65049782832913675442020-03-23T12:04:00.000-07:002020-03-23T12:04:37.469-07:00An Homage to Veneto and Italy In These Troubled Times<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ever since the first time I walked into Piazza San Marco as a wide-eyed eleven year old, I've felt that Venice was a home away from home. There is no place in the world that fills me with more emotion than Veneto and Italy. I get a strange sense of belonging, of familiarity that definitely has to do with reincarnation, with lives in Venezia, Vicenza, and the area around Bassano and Marostica. But no matter whether this is true or not, it hurts my heart to follow the grim news coming out of one of the greatest countries in the world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Italy saved my life in the Nineties when I suffered from depression. The Italian language beca<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">me my sound healing and the clouds lifted every time I went to language school in Feltre, Lucca, and Perugia or were writing on my novels in Trastevere or on the Amalfi coast. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So this is a small photo and love letter to my beloved Italy during this difficult pandemic - to the fun loving Italians, to Vicenza, Francisco d'Assisi, Lecco, Zucchero, Vernazza, Atrani, Taormina, Monica Bellucci, Lago di Como, Aosta, Andrea Pirlo, Belluno, Feltre, Bassano del Grappa, Luigi Malerba, Fiat 500, Campo dei Fiori, penne arrabbiata, Gomorra, Canaletto, Paolo Sorrentino, Ravello, Marostica, Santa Caterina da Siena, Gazzetta dello Sport, Carpaccio, Urbino e un tramezzino al tonno in Piazza San Michele a Lucca alle 11.22.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thanks for all you've given the world, Italy. GET WELL SOON!</span><br />
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Photos: Venice, Bassano del Grappa, Venice, Marostica.<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-4925810985488123652019-02-02T10:00:00.001-08:002019-03-18T15:58:36.726-07:00Hope, Peace of Mind, and The Kind of Literature The World Needs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was born without peace of mind. At least that's what it felt like, but what I know for a fact is that a huge part of it was taken from me when I was four and a half. The next fifty years was a struggle, but the terror inside was probably why I had to develop a sense of humor.<br />
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I've never needed medication for my anxieties. White wine was my medication. So was living in my imagination and unlocking secrets from the stars, but the last ten years I've almost become a grounded human being. Internally, my life has never been better than now and I'm actually grateful for the struggles I've had. I would have been a human disaster if I'd gotten everything I wanted when I was thirty-three.<br />
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The awareness I have now will change my writing in the future. Most of the fourteen novels I´ve written I wouldn't write today. <i>The Tsar's Dwarf</i> and <i>Flødeskumsfronten</i>, my World War II novel, have been my biggest successes and I'm proud of them, but they are too dark for me now. And my early novels from the nineties are probably too shallow. From now on I want to lift people's spirit but whether it will happen as a novelist, a screenwriter, a spiritual speaker, a poet, or just by being the village idiot I don't know.<br />
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When I was keynote speaker at the Book Forum in Lviv, Ukraine in 2017, I told the audience that the age of thrillers and intellectual masturbation will come to an end soon. In the future we're going to need a literature that speaks to the heart because we're heading toward troubled times with a lot of uncertainty around us.<br />
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Hope must never become a four-letter world, but in the world of literature and "serious" film it often is. We seem to be addicted to misery which is understandable since it's much easier to write and has more readers. Killing people on the page is a breeze. Making them breathe is a great deal harder.
Perhaps the same goes for life, but a lot of people are waking up to the fact that every word we put out there is important.<br />
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Do we want to be human sewers trolling everybody we disagree with? Or is it possible to be agents of positive change without writing spiritual dross?<br />
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By positive change I don't mean we should go in Disney mode. We still need dramas, tragedies, and edgy thrillers. Nobody in their right mind would want to "outlaw" zombies or police detectives, but the trick is writing them so we can learn something about the human condition instead of increasing the collective anxieties in our volatile world.<br />
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I can only talk for myself, but why would I consciously rob others of their peace of mind when I know how dreadful it is to live without it?<br />
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******Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-11165838355126567602019-01-13T11:46:00.000-08:002019-07-06T10:45:08.656-07:00Karen Blixen - Storyteller, Mystic, Witch, and Still Going Strong After Her Own Death<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Believe it or not, this is a picture of my new best friend. Her name is Karen Blixen and she is considered the greatest Danish writer of the 20th century. When Ernest Hemingway won the Noble Prize, he said they should have given it to the wonderful writer, Isak Dinesen. Isak Dinesen's real name was Karen Blixen and Meryl Streep played her in<i> Out of Africa</i>.<br />
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Last year Karen began to appear in my dreams and meditations; then out of the blue, I was invited to talk about my own writing and hers at Charlottenlund Castle in Copenhagen. At first, I didn't really understand why I was chosen because I've only written two novels that are somewhat inspired by her, <i>The Tsar's Dwarf</i> and <i>Skorpionens hale</i>.<br />
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When I arrived at the castle, I was surprised to read in the program that "Karen Blixen would have loved <i>The Tsar's Dwarf</i>." I don't know if that's true but the main protagonist in my novel, Sørine Bentsdatter is a wise witch, and so was Karen Blixen --- a benign one for sure, but definitely not your average Danish Lutheran. "Real art must always involve some witchcraft," she once wrote and that seemed to go for her life as well.<br />
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At the event in Copenhagen, I talked about Karen Blixen, The Mystic - her relationship to spirituality, nature, and destiny. As a mystic myself, I share her world view and deep respect for all gods and faiths. Perhaps that's why I feel she is with me when I read her. Blixen's world creeps into me and refuses to leave me in a way I've only experienced with Rumi and Hermann Hesse. I simply sensed her presence when I re-read <i>Out of Africa </i>last fall.<br />
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Perhaps this isn't as strange as it sounds. The relationship between writer and reader is often a metaphysical one because even dead writers love to be read. Just like their prose, they live on and inspire who they can in this beautiful, magical, and enigmatic universe where nobody ever dies.<br />
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<i>Recommended reading:</i><br />
<i>Out of Africa</i><br />
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<i>Winter Tales </i><i><br /></i></div>
<i>The Roads Round Pisa and The Monkey from </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Seven Gothic Tales</span><br />
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...Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-4415005046667521402018-11-28T08:19:00.000-08:002018-12-11T09:40:51.161-08:00A Spiritual Perspective On The Russia-Ukraine Crisis And The Ego's Need To Feel Superior<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Some months ago, a Ukrainian reader wrote me a fan mail about my novel, The Tsar's Dwarf that was translated into his language in 2017. Naturally, I loved the feedback and after a few mails back and forth, the Ukrainian told me that I wouldn't hear from him for a while because he had just joined the air force to fight the Russians.<br />
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I remember thinking, is that war from 2014 still on? And yes, unfortunately it is. Over 10,000 have died in Eastern Ukraine. The Western media just "forgot" about it until a few days ago when Russia attacked and seized three Ukrainian ships off the coast of Crimea - the Ukrainian peninsula Russia annexed four years ago. The conflict could turn into a full-scale war that might affect us all.<br />
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So right now my thoughts and prayers go to my Ukrainian publisher-friends at Fabulabook in Kharkov which is close to the war zone in Eastern Ukraine - and to the many awesome readers and writers I met during my two memorable trips to Lviv.<br />
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But my thoughts also go to the millions of Russians who want peace with their neighbors. The extreme nationalism we see everywhere in the world is dangerous whether it's by the Black Sea, in small-town America or in Brasilia.<br />
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Extreme nationalism is <i>always</i> the work of the human ego and will only cause strife because politicians love to exploit the ego's need to feel superior to its neighbors! So if we don't understand why there are so many wars, we should just look at the place in ourselves where our Inner Bully wants to control others. All of us need to raise our consciousness to create a better world. Ranting at warmongers, manipulative politicians, and the press is a good way to let off steam but won't do the job. We need to see ourselves as co-creators on this planet instead of powerless zombies in a random and cruel universe.<br />
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Non-violent resistance, the arts, and international connections with people who broaden our horizons can help with that. So can small "insignificant" gestures like being nicer to everybody we meet, whether it's online or offline. A better world starts wherever we are right now, not tomorrow, and definitely <i>not</i> when our favorite party wins the election. The true revolution can only come from within. Revolutions aren't decided in voting booths or by wearing red baseball caps. Sure, our leaders are important but not half as important as we think, so perhaps they don't deserve as much love or scorn as we shower them with?<br />
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But for now let's pray that the Ukraine-Russia conflict doesn't become a new bloody chapter in the dysfunctional history of humankind. It might sound like a spiritual cliché, but if we don't see everybody as our sisters and brothers, this planet doesn't stand a chance. However, I do think that the collective nationalism will be gasping for air soon because globalization and major changes for the better are coming and we can't stop the spiritual awakening around us, even if we tried.<br />
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Unless, of course, there is somebody out there with a lock to the Internet and the human soul, which thank God there isn't.<br />
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****<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1c1e21; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;"><i>(Photo: Peter from Denmark, Natasha from Ukraine, and Tatiana from Russia at the International Book Forum in Lviv, September 2017)</i></span><b></b><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-33530953751132519702018-07-05T11:22:00.004-07:002024-01-11T15:14:25.098-08:00Denmark for Dummies 2022 - A Superficial Guide to the Greatest Nation on Earth (Except for Legoland, Perhaps) <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcYmlEBMSAMbCMS6hfn5tKL9yRpzVjs-u8d6jRBYDnfPqr6eldyzqjSoSnJBqEFFcjJCb6jolnX-CQYo5kGwtmxzdspkVkONqCOGPcdiE9r_RIYN6xfWi6gu0WXljuvNVTwF_V4_vkkVgjzUTCAVAeBS8hUb9npr45Up7m_DV1MzvVKmf9cTEdrjkFYg=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2314" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcYmlEBMSAMbCMS6hfn5tKL9yRpzVjs-u8d6jRBYDnfPqr6eldyzqjSoSnJBqEFFcjJCb6jolnX-CQYo5kGwtmxzdspkVkONqCOGPcdiE9r_RIYN6xfWi6gu0WXljuvNVTwF_V4_vkkVgjzUTCAVAeBS8hUb9npr45Up7m_DV1MzvVKmf9cTEdrjkFYg=w368-h640" width="368" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
You're smart.<br />
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You're planning to visit the greatest of the Scandinavian countries.<br />
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Yes, admit it, you've always wanted to go to Denmark much more than Sweden because the Danes invented the atomic bomb and <i>hygge</i>. You tell yourself, "Why
would I want to go to the French Alps when I can go
rock climbing on Falster? I'm trendy, I want to ride my bike with the xenophobic Danes because they're the happiest people in the world." <br />
<br />
Actually, that's not true anymore. Finland beat us in 2022, but unlike them the Danes always make the news for <i>positive</i>
reasons, like killing healthy minks, or harassing refugees at the border.<br />
<br />So, come and visit us, will you? And please bring your credit cards because God knows you're going to need them!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> GUIDE TO DENMARK</b></span><br />
<b> A superficial introduction to our Scandinavian Paradise. </b><br />
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<b>Name in Danish:</b> Danmark<br />
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<b>Inhabitants:</b> 5.7 million<br />
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<b><b>Size:</b> </b>The 8th biggest country in the world if you count Greenland. (Always count Greenland)<b> </b><br />
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<b>Capital:</b> Copenhagen, Copenaghen, Kopenhagen, Copenhague, København (1.5 million)<br />
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<b>Ranking:</b> Most Livable City in the World (Monocle, British Magazine, 2008, 2013, 2014)<br />
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<b>Other Top Rankings That We Take Pride In: </b><br />
a) Most Trusting People.<br />
b) Average Consumption of Beer (Fourth<i> </i>highest<i> </i>in the world.)<br />
c) Crime per Capita: Fourth lowest in the world<br />
d) Best Government in the World (2014)<br />
e) Second Best Country for Women (beating Saudi Arabia)<br />
f) Second Best Country for Singles Traveling Alone<br />
g) Lonely Planet's Top Destination in 2019, Copenhagen.<br />
h) Least Corrupt Country in the World (We bribed us to that)<div>i) Best Neighborhood in the World: Norrebro, Copenhagen (Time Out, 2021) <br />
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<b>Language:</b> Guttural.<br />
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<b>Government:</b> Constitutional monarchy.<br />
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<b>Currency:</b> Kroner. (6.50 DKK to a US dollar, 0.04 to the Angolan Kwanza)<br />
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<b>Religion:</b> No, thank you.<br />
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<b>Name of Queen:</b> Margrethe II.<br />
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<b>Name of Prime Minister:</b> Mette Frederiksen.<br />
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<b>Famous Living Danes:</b> Mads Mikkelsen, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau (actors), Christian Eriksen (soccer player with a heartbeat), Mette Frederiksen (mink lover), Mø, Benjamin Lasnier (social media monster), Mary (Crown Princess of Tasmania), Crown Prince Frederik (who wasn't born in Tasmania), Lars Mikkelsen, (actor), Lars
von Trier (enfant terrible), Lars Ulrich (founder of Metallica), Viktor Axelsen (world's best badminton player), Helena Christensen (ex-model), Jussi Adler-Olsen (the Danish Stieg Larsson, just
alive), Kasper Schmeichel, Peter Schmeichel, Michael Laudrup (soccer players), René Redzepi, Claus Meyer (chefs), Bjarke Ingels (architect), Brigitte Nielsen (tall tabloid fodder who gave birth to her grandchild at 54 and probably will give birth to her great grandchild at 68), Caroline Wozniacki (ex-tennis player), Lukas Graham, Michael Learns to Rock (singers), Martin Jensen (DJ, producer), Margrethe Vestager (friend of Google and Facebook) </div><div>
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<b>Famous Half Danes:</b> Viggo Mortensen, Scarlett Johansson, Tordenskjold<br />
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<b>Famous Dead Danes You Should Mourn Now:</b>
Hans Christian Andersen (author), Søren Kierkegaard (philosopher), King Canute
(conquered England), Tycho Brahe (conquered the universe), Isak Dinesen
(conquered Africa), Karen Blixen (conquered Meryl Streep), Vitus Bering
(explorer who had a strait named after him), Niels Bohr (physicist), Georg Jensen (design), Carl Nielsen
(composer), Carl Dreyer (film director), Victor Borge (comedian),
Bertel Thorvaldsen (sculptor), Hamlet (Shakespeare's boy toy)</div>
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<b>Danish Anti Heroes: </b>Struensee and Raheem Sterling.<br />
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<b>Biggest Selling Pop Song of All Time:</b> 7 Years by Lukas Graham (Grammy nominated for Record and Song of the Year in 2017 but beaten by an unknown singer from Tottenham named Adele)<br />
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<b>Danish Imperialism:</b> Lego, Maersk, Ecco, Vesta, Bang and Olufsen, Carlsberg, Tuborg, Flying Tiger.<br />
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<b>Best Danish Word We Like to Shove Down Your Throat: </b><i>Hygge</i>.<i> (</i>Hygge almost always involves good food, akvavit, and lighting candles, even though nobody has died. Please don't embarrass yourself by trying to pronounce the word. We don't want to laugh at you)<br />
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<b>Best Danish Word You Shouldn't Teach Your Children: </b>Listepik</div>
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<b>Most Important Phrase:</b> Tak for sidst<br />
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<b>Worst Sin You Can Commit in Denmark</b>: <i>Not </i>saying tak for sidst<br />
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<b>What Does 'Tak for Sidst' Mean? </b>You wouldn't understand, anyway<br />
<br /><b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Far East:</b> Badminton<br />
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<b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Middle East:</b> Vintage cartoons from 2005<br />
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<b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in the UK:</b> Bacon and bikes<br />
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<b>Most Important Danish Invention of All Time:</b> The atomic bomb (Niels Bohr)<br />
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<b>Second Most Important Invention of All Time: </b>Lego<br />
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<b>Third Most Important Invention That Actually Wasn't Invented in Denmark But We Don't Mind Taking Credit for It Anyway: </b>Danish pastry (Thanks, Vienna)<b><br /></b><br />
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<b>Best Tourist Attraction If You're into Knights in Shining Armor:</b> Frederiksborg castle (Hillerød) <br />
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<b>Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eight Years Old:</b> Legoland.<br />
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<b>Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eighty Years Old:</b> Tivoli.<br />
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<b>Most Overrated Tourist Attraction:</b> The Little Mermaid.<br />
<br /><b>Time of Glory I:</b> When the Danish Vikings conquered England in the 11th century<br />
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<b>Time Of Glory II:</b> When Denmark won the European Championship in football (soccer) in 1992 beating the Germans 2-0 in the final, and the whole country behaved like a frat party<br />
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<b>Most Awesome Cities in Denmark Apart from Copenhagen:</b>
Helsingør (Elsinore), Ærøskøbing, Faaborg, Ebeltoft, Ribe, Silkeborg, Skagen,
Svaneke, Svendborg, Gudhjem, Aarhus, and Christiania (if you still think that Che Guevara and bean
bag chairs are cool)<br />
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<b>Best Time to Visit the Land of the Danes: </b>From late May to early September<br />
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<b>Best Month to Commit Suicide Because It's Dark, Dreary, and Everybody Wish They Were in Thailand:</b> January<br />
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<b>Most Patriotic Sacrifice for the Motherland to Make Sure Our Superior Gene Pool Survives: </b>Do It for Denmark<b><br /></b><br />
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<b>Best Danish Traits:</b> Tolerance, sense of humor, informality<br />
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<b>Worst Danish Traits: </b>Intolerance, sarcasm, xenophobia, also known as <i>hyggeracisme </i>(don't look it up, please)<br />
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<b>What You'll Miss the Most If You're Norwegian:</b> Norway<br />
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<b>Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane:</b> Now, which part of Germany are you from again?<br />
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<b>Second Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane:</b> Sweden is my favorite Scandinavian country<br /><br />We can't wait to welcome you to the oldest kingdom in the world, people! <br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Copyright, Peter H. Fogtdal, Danish Accent, 2008, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2016, 2018</b></span><br />
<br />All pictures are mine.<br />
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:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::</div>Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-78377568228749340632018-05-24T10:12:00.002-07:002018-12-01T12:18:47.705-08:00Travel Advice for Tourists: If You Don't Do This in Venice, You Need to Have Your IQ Tested<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is what you should do when you visit Venice, or I’m going to get so mad at you it’s not even funny! <br />
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First, you should go to Piazza San Marco like everybody else because it’s the most beautiful square in the world with the restored <i>freschi</i> on Basilica San Marco and the majestic Doge Palace facing the lagoon, but you WILL go way before 9 AM or after 8 PM unless you’re suicidal or want to bond with 25 Chinese tour groups, two thousand cruise passengers, and 333 pimpled teenagers from Belgium.<br />
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Also, you will NOT - I repeat NOT buy a selfie stick for 3 Euros because then you can be sure I'll unfriend you on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or worse, I'll send you signed copies of my third novel that nobody liked except my mother, and she's dead.<br />
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However, on your second day, you WILL get up at 5.05 AM, throw away your cell phone and the wrinkled map you got for free at your overpriced hotel that's either close to the station or Piazza San Marco, which are the WORST places to get a hotel, but you're forgiven because you probably didn't know better - and now you WILL get lost in the REAL Venezia, enjoying the narrow canals, the red bras flapping in the breeze, the seagulls attacking the garbage bags outside the medieval <i>palazzi</i>, and tears will stream down your face because you didn't know how gorgeous, turquoise, and calm <i>Serenissima</i> was at dawn.<br />
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Yes, it's true. You WILL get lost without your GPS.<br />
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Your kids WILL scream at you.<br />
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Your partner WILL divorce you, but who cares because you've experienced the greatest city on earth before it's destroyed by mass urination, and the rising sea that some day will leave Venice at the bottom of the <i>laguna</i> like a 21st century Atlantis.<br />
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<i>Copyright Peter H. Fogtdal, Danish Accent who has visited Venice about twenty times, and suffers from a serious Venezia-addiction for centuries that can't be cured, thank God!</i><br />
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<i>************</i>Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-16643897156255303012017-10-10T21:14:00.000-07:002017-11-27T11:54:50.309-08:00Visiting Lviv: The Tsar's Dwarf Is Out In Ukraine, And Don't I Just Love That?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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From the second I arrived in Lviv, Ukraine, I loved the city. There was something familiar about it, as if I recognized it from a past life, and since I believe in reincarnation, I probably did. <br />
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However, I hadn't gone to Eastern Europe for metaphysical reasons. I'd been invited by Lviv International Literary Festival (Lviv Book Forum 2017) and my Ukrainian publisher Fabula (Ranok) to present my best seller, <i>The Tsar's Dwarf</i> that had come out a few months earlier.</div>
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After eight quiet years writing two Danish novels, <i>Det store glidefald </i>and <i>Det egyptiske hjerte</i>, I must admit I loved the attention <i>The Tsar's Dwarf </i>and its author got at Lviv Book Forum, one of the biggest literary events in Eastern Europe with over 200 panels, 320 stands, and writers from 23 countries. </div>
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<i>The Tsar's Dwarf </i>is now out in six countries and was on a short list of the best seven foreign works at the Book Forum along with one of my heroes <span class="text_exposed_show">Don DeLillo. The editor at my Ukrainian publisher said that my novel was up there with the best in the business which made me teary-eyed and I signed so many books my face turned yellow and blue which happens to be the Ukrainian colors. </span></div>
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Apart from that, I was selected to do the keynote speech at the opening ceremony (picture above) where I predicted that the literature of the future will be a literature of healing instead of the darkness of thrillers and the migraine-induced intellectual writing of gloom that scholars are so infatuated with. We're going to need books that offer hope without being shallow and saccharine because we live in challenging times and it might not get better in the near future. </div>
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Lviv was a warm embrace. I met lovely readers everywhere I went. I gave interviews to Western Ukrainian radio, some literary websites, a local newspaper, and both my soul and ego were happy with my five days in one of the most beautiful cities in Eastern Europe. <br />
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Lviv had castles, cobblestones, majestic churches, markets, and old world trams rumbling through its crooked streets, but to me the greatness of a city has little to do with tourist sites. Legends grew out of sidewalks and alleyways -- Lviv had so much atmosphere. It was as if the medieval times coexisted with the 1920s, the 1950s, and the present, and they all got along really well. And the fact that the city is cheap for Western Europeans doesn't hurt, either. You could get a fabulous meal for $8 and as you would expect, the borscht was gooooood! <br />
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Whenever I visit a new city I like to get up early, walk around, and get lost. This is something I have a talent for, getting lost. Lviv was perfect for that and since I never got a map, I had all the excuses in the world to end up weird places, beautiful places, lovely places, surrounded by letters I didn't understand and the odd angel outside the gorgeous opera house.</div>
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When I left Ukraine, it was with joy in my heart. I truly liked the wonderful people at my publisher Fabula. Just looking at the pictures here make me feel good, so why don't you plan a trip to the Krakow of Ukraine before it's turned into a haven for mass tourism? In five years it might have become another Starbucks-infested city losing its soul to brands, chain stores and Marriotts on the city square. I pray that won't happen, but there's a decent chance it will!</div>
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PS. Vladimir Putin, if you're reading this, you should NOT visit Western Ukraine. Check the last picture to see why ...<br />
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*Copyright, Peter H. Fogtdal, 2017<br />
<br />Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-83040124707739985762017-07-18T11:42:00.003-07:002017-07-23T13:29:08.609-07:00New Spiritual Novel Out In Denmark September 1, 2017 (Atheists and Agnostics Are Welcome, Too)<br />
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1.<br />
I have a new novel coming out in Denmark September 1, 2017. It's my fourteenth so I might be getting a hang of this art form ...<br />
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The book is a serious farce about a Danish-American businessman's attempt at reaching Enlightenment in a surreal Indian ashram where his faith comes and goes every times something goes "wrong." And as we all know, things go wrong in life quite often, even when you're in a community where everybody believes in the same guru as you do. <br />
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The novel is loosely based on some experiences I've had with three Indian gurus but the protagonist isn't me. Nick's adventures are much more outrageous than mine and his background is totally different, even though he's a Dane living in America as well. However, the theme is something I wholeheartedly believe in: Spirituality is for everybody. The idea that you need to belong to a specific religion, sect or cult to be 'saved" is ludicrous and anti-spiritual. The last thing this world needs is more dogmatic priests, gurus, clairvoyants, imams. So breaking News: Atheists don't go to hell. They're as loved as Barabbas and Brahmins.<br />
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I should finish the English version late this fall so hopefully my agent Britt B. Tippins from Storyscout will sell it to an English language publisher with exquisite taste, and to a lot of other countries. I've spent the last eight years writing on both versions, so right now I'm happy and relieved that the Danish incarnation is seeing the light of day soon.<br />
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2.<br />
The Danish title of the novel is <i>Det store glidefald</i> which is a play on words. It means something like The Great Prostration or The Great Surrender. The English title will be totally different and the two versions are <i>not</i> alike. I can't just sit and translate my own work like a zombie. That would be tedious, boring, and bad for my health. The voice is a little different in the English version, which I worked on the longest, not just because I'm writing it in my second language but because I constantly had dreams pointing me in new directions. <br />
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But that's how muses work. At one point, I was told to change the ending in a vivid dream. Then I dreamed the novel was too long which was totally true. So if there's one thing I've learned it's this, don't ever argue with your muse. Accept that somebody is writing with you or through you if you take your art seriously. <br />
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And yes, rational writers have muses, too. We all work with worlds we don't know exist. None of us have an inkling of what's going on in this matrix or the next, so let's try to be humble and belly laugh at the human condition.<br />
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3.<br />
Later, I'll write more about <i>Det store glidefald</i> on this blog and show gorgeous pictures from India. Actually, I've dedicated the novel to<i> "the most fascinating and infuriating country on earth"</i> - a place I've been about eight times - and as most other visitors, I've developed a love-hate relationship to this addictive sub-continent. Actually, I started writing on the English version back in Varanasi in 2009 (see picture above), then I started on the Danish version in 2011, returned to India in 2012 because I was lucky to get a five week grant to the international writers' residency Sangam House outside Bangalore, so this has been an exhausting and thrilling journey.<br />
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Wish me luck September 1st. I'm <i>so</i> excited and hopefully my Danish readers will be as well.<br />
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<i>Det store glidefald by Peter H. Fogtdal, Turbine forlag, 333 pages, 299 Danish kroner. Design, Peter Stoltze.</i> <br />
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<i>You can pre-order the book by scrolling down on this page from book seller</i> <a href="https://www.saxo.com/dk/soeg/bog?query=Peter+H+Fogtdal">SAXO.DK</a>Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-24969604445759743592017-04-19T21:42:00.000-07:002024-01-11T15:15:59.250-08:00Denmark for Dummies 2017 (A Superficial Guide to the Greatest Country in Scandinavia and Possibly the Universe)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You're smart.<br />
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You're planning to go to the greatest of the Scandinavian countries.<br />
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Yes, admit it, you've always wanted to visit Denmark much more than Sweden and Norway because the Danes invented the atomic bomb and <i>hygge</i>. You tell yourself, "Why
would I want to go to Lofoten or Ikea when I can go
rock climbing on Saltholm? I'm trendy, I want to ride my bike with the Danes because they're the happiest people in the world." <br />
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Actually, that's not true any more. Our beloved Norwegians beat us this year, but unlike them the Danes always make the news for <i>positive</i>
reasons, like killing healthy giraffes in Zoos, or harassing refugees at the border so they get so desperate they flee to Sweden.<br />
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Come and visit us, will you? And please bring your credit cards and your rain coat because God knows you're going to need them!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> GUIDE TO DENMARK</b></span><br />
<b> A superficial introduction to the Scandinavian Paradise slightly left of Sweden. </b><br />
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<b>Name in Danish:</b> Danmark<br />
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<b>Inhabitants:</b> 5.6 million<br />
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<b><b>Size:</b> </b>The 8th biggest country in the world if you count Greenland. (Always count Greenland)<b> </b><br />
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<b>Capital:</b> Copenhagen (1.5 million)<br />
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<b>Ranking:</b> Most Livable City in the World (Monocle, British Magazine, 2008, 2013, 2014)<br />
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<b>Other Top Rankings That We Take Pride In: </b><br />
a) Most Trusting People in the World.<br />
b) Average Consumption of Beer (Fourth<i> </i>highest<i> </i>in the world.)<br />
c) Crime per Capita: Fourth lowest in the world.<br />
d) Best Government in the World (2014)<br />
e) Second Best Country for Women (beating Saudi Arabia)<br />
f) Second Best Country for Singles Traveling Alone<br />
g) Least Corrupt Country in the World (We bribed us to that)<br />
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<b>Language:</b> Guttural.<br />
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<b>Government:</b> Constitutional monarchy.<br />
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<b>Currency:</b> Kroner. (7 DKK to a US dollar, 0.04 to the Angolan Kwanza)<br />
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<b>Religion:</b> No, thank you.<br />
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<b>Name of Queen:</b> Margrethe II.<br />
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<b>Name of Prime Minister:</b> Lars Løkke Rasmussen, or The Little Swindler as we like to call him.<br />
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<b>Worst Cake Ever: </b> Immigration minister Inger Støjberg celebrating the 50th amendment to keep foreigners out of our Aryan Heaven. <br />
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<b>Most Important Thing You Should Know About Denmark: </b>We have more pigs than people.<br />
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<b>Second Most Important Thing You Should Know About Denmark</b>: The best football player in the world isn't Messi. He is Danish.<br />
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<b>Best Selfie of the Decade:</b> Ex-Prime Minister Helle Thorning-Schmidt with her two secret lovers, Barack and David.<br />
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<b>Famous Dead Danes You Should Mourn Now:</b>
Hans Christian Andersen (author), Søren Kierkegaard (philosopher), King Canute
(conquered England), Tycho Brahe (conquered the universe), Isak Dinesen
(conquered Africa), Karen Blixen (conquered Meryl Streep), Vitus Bering
(explorer, had a strait named after him), Niels Bohr (physicist), Georg Jensen (design), Carl Nielsen
(composer), Carl Dreyer (film director), Victor Borge (comedian),
Bertel Thorvaldsen (sculpturer), Hamlet (Shakespeare's boy toy).</div>
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<b>Famous Living Danes: </b>Caroline Wozniacki (tennis player), Lukas Graham (singer), Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Mads Mikkelsen (actors) Lars
von Trier, Susanne Bier (film directors), Margrethe Vestager (EU Commissioner and Google's worst nightmare), Lars Ulrich (founder of Metallica), Helena Christensen (model), Jussi Adler-Olsen (the Danish Stieg Larsson, just
alive), Michael Laudrup, Christian Eriksen, Lord Bendtner, Schmeichel & Schmeichel (soccer players), René Redzepi, Carl Meyer (chefs), Bjarke Ingels (architect), Margrethe II (Queen of Denmark), Mary (Crown Princess of Tasmania) <br />
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<b>Famous Half Danes:</b> Viggo Mortensen, Scarlett Johansson, Tordenskjold.<br />
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<b>Danes Who Ought to Be Dead:</b> Jante.<br />
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<b>Best Athlete & Heartthrob Who Happened to Win Gold and Bronze at the Olympics in Rio:</b> Pernille Blume, swimmer.<br />
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<b>Danish TV-Series That Have Conquered the World But Not Netflix:</b> The Killing (Forbrydelsen), Borgen, The Protectors (Livvagterne), The Bridge (Broen, co-production with Sweden), 1864, The Legacy (Arvingerne).<br />
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<b>Biggest Selling Danish Pop Song of All Time:</b> 7 Years by Lukas Graham (Grammy nominated for Record of the Year and Song of the Year in 2017 but beaten by an unknown singer named Adele)<br />
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<b>Most Famous Danish Building:</b> The Opera House in Sydney (Jørn Utzon)<br />
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<b>Danish Imperialism:</b> Lego, Maersk, Ecco, Vesta, Bang and Olufsen, Carlsberg, Tuborg, Tiger.<br />
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<b>Best Danish Word We Like to Shove Down Your Throat: </b> Hygge.<br />
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<i>Hygge</i> almost always involves good food, akvavit, and spying on your neighbors the Danish way. Please don't embarrass yourself by trying to pronounce the word. We don't want to laugh at you. </div>
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<b>Best Danish Word You Shouldn't Teach Your Children: </b>Listepik</div>
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<b>Most Important Cliche:</b> Tak for sidst.<br />
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<b>Worst Sin You Can Commit in Denmark</b>: Not<i> </i>saying tak for sidst.<br />
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<b>What Does 'Tak for Sidst' Mean? </b>You wouldn't understand, anyway.<b></b><br />
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<b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in Spain, Greece and Cyprus: </b>Blond girls with herpes.<br />
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<b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Far East:</b> Badminton.<br />
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<b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Middle East:</b> Cartoons.<br />
<br />
<b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in the UK:</b> Bacon and bikes.<br />
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<br />
<b>Most Important Danish Invention of All Time:</b> The atomic bomb (Niels Bohr)<br />
<br />
<b>Second Most Important Invention of All Time: </b>Lego<br />
<br />
<b>Third Most Important Invention That Actually Wasn't Invented In Denmark But We Take Credit For It Anyway: </b>Danish pastry (Thanks, Austria)<b><br /></b><br />
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<br />
<br />
<b>Best Tourist Attraction If You're Into Knights in Shining Armour:</b> Frederiksborg castle (Hillerød) <br />
<br />
<b>Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eight Years Old:</b> Legoland.<br />
<br />
<b>Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eighty Years Old:</b> Tivoli.<br />
<br />
<b>Most Overrated Tourist Attraction:</b> The Little Mermaid.<br />
<br /><b>Time of Glory I:</b> When the Danish vikings conquered England in the 11th century.<br />
<br />
<b>Time Of Glory II:</b> When Denmark won the European Championship in football (soccer) in 1992 beating the Germans 2-0 in the finale, and the whole country behaved like a frat party.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFYUYL4PSlI/AAAAAAAAAnc/XqfbVq5Njmk/s1600-h/Italien+%26+Syrien+2007+032.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212376024466016850" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFYUYL4PSlI/AAAAAAAAAnc/XqfbVq5Njmk/s400/Italien+%26+Syrien+2007+032.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>Most Awesome Cities in Denmark:</b>
Helsingør (Elsinore), Ærøskøbing, Faaborg, Ebeltoft, Ribe, Skagen,
Svaneke, Aarhus (European Capital of Culture, 2017), Copenhagen, Christiania (if you still think that Che Guevara and bean
bag chairs are cool?)<br />
<br />
<b>Best Time to Visit the Land of the Danes: </b>From late May to early September. <br />
<br />
<b>Best Month to Commit Suicide Because It's Dark, Dreary, and Everybody Wish They Were in Thailand:</b> January.<br />
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<b><br /></b>
<b>Most Patriotic Sacrifice for the Motherland to Make Sure Our Superior Gene Pool Survives: </b>Do It For Denmark<b><br /></b><br />
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<b> </b> <br />
<br />
<b>Best Danish Traits:</b> Tolerance, sense of humor, informality.<br />
<br />
<b>Worst Danish Traits: </b>Intolerance, sarcasm, disrespectful.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<b>What You'll Miss the Most If You're an American Visiting Denmark:</b> TV anchors with perfect teeth.<br />
<br />
<b>What You'll Miss the Most If You're Italian:</b> Bread and Berlusconi.<br />
<br />
<b>What You'll Miss the Most If You're Norwegian:</b> Norway<br />
<br />
<b>Most Beautiful Area of Denmark:</b> The Silkeborg lake district in Jutland and the island of Bornholm.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFYtCqbcszI/AAAAAAAAAns/LTEk67-FAa8/s1600-h/Hald5.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212403142500332338" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFYtCqbcszI/AAAAAAAAAns/LTEk67-FAa8/s400/Hald5.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane:</b> Now, which part of Germany are you from again?<br />
<br />
<b>Second Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane: </b> You used to be good at football. What the hell happened?<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Third Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane:</b> Sweden and Norway are my favorite Scandinavian countries.<br />
<br />
Enjoy
your stay. And tourists, please forgive Copenhagen for looking like
Pompeii. We're building a Metro that we don't really need.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
Winner of <a href="http://www.denmark.net/jazz">www.Denmark.net's</a> International Contest, 2009. Updated April 2017.<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Copyright, Peter H. Fogtdal, Danish Accent, 2008, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2016, 2017 </span><br />
<br />
The art work on the very top of Denmark and Sweden boxing was taken from businessinsider. com. The beautiful photo of the bikes at Sortedams dosseringen in Copenhagen was from VisitDenmark. <br />
<br />
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-2221672170838339142017-03-09T12:42:00.000-08:002017-03-09T13:44:06.161-08:00Excerpt of The Tsar's Dwarf, My Offbeat Historical Novel<br />
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<br />
Even though it's a while back my novel came out in America, I still find myself sandwiched in between Ken Follett and Jonathan Safran Foer at the odd indie book store. Not that I mind too much. Hopefully they don't either.<br />
<br />
If you're curious, here is how my offbeat historical novel starts. The translation is by Tiina Nunnally and she did a great job capturing my voice. So far The Tsar's Dwarf has come out in Denmark, America, Canada, France, Portugal, and it will be out in Ukraine this fall.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SK0LTl61YJI/AAAAAAAAAvU/XuFv7LQDGM4/s1600-h/The+Tsar%27s+Dwarf+cover.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236854372926054546" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SK0LTl61YJI/AAAAAAAAAvU/XuFv7LQDGM4/s400/The+Tsar's+Dwarf+cover.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-size: 180%;"> THE TSAR'S DWARF (AN EXCERPT)</span><br />
<br />
<br />
1.<br />
My name is Sørine Bentsdatter. I was born in 1684 in the village of Brønshøj. My father was a pastor, my mother died in childbirth.<br />
<br />
When I turned six my body decided not to grow anymore.<br />
<br />
I don’t care for the term “dwarf.”<br />
<br />
As a rule, I don’t care for dwarves at all.<br />
<br />
<br />
2.<br />
The fine gentlemen have brought me here to Copenhagen Castle. They’ve set me on a carpet that feels as if I’m treading on seaweed. Now they’re looking at me in that jovial manner they favor—their heads tilted, their lips twitching — but I stare right back at them. I always stare back, because they’re uglier than I am. The only difference is that they don’t know it.<br />
<br />
“Do it again,” says the finest of those gentlemen.<br />
<br />
His name is Callenberg. He’s a smug cavalier with red cheeks. His legs are bound with silk. I put my hands on my hips and stare at his multiple chins, which are quivering with mirth.<br />
<br />
Callenberg spreads his legs and smiles. I move across the soft floor, duck my head, and walk between his legs. I do it four or five times, back and forth, like some sort of obsequious cur. And now they’re all applauding; now they’re cackling contentedly in their perfumed chicken yard. Of course I could have bumped my head into Callenberg’s nobler parts, but that would have been foolish. And you can say any number of things about a wench like me, but I’m no fool.<br />
<br />
“Splendid.” Callenberg draws his legs together with a satisfied grunt.<br />
<br />
The courtiers once again stare at me with a condescending expression — the same way that everyone looks at me, with a despicable mixture of contempt and joviality. But they could just as well have been staring out the window. They could just as well be gazing up and down the length of the Blue Tower, because they don’t see me, those people. How could they see me when they’re as blind as bats?<br />
<br />
All at once I catch sight of my figure in the mirror. I’m small and withered, with deep furrows on my brow. My eyes are tiny and green, my lips thin and sardonic. My nose and my ears are a bit too big, my hair is long and graying. The veins dance up and down my bowed legs, but there is nothing ridiculous about me. That’s something they’re all going to learn.<br />
<br />
Callenberg sits down on a scissors chair and snaps his fingers. A moment later a glass of clove wine is brought to him along with a plate of Flemish chocolates. His hands are fat and pink, his nails look like shiny seashells. That’s how a human being is. Loathsome and vain, with habits that increase in cruelty the more the person eats.<br />
<br />
“Ask the dwarf what sort of tricks it can do.”<br />
<br />
The First Secretary turns to me. When he speaks, he does so slowly, as if he were talking to an idiot. I choose to ignore him.<br />
<br />
I’m familiar with the fine gentlemen. I have more experience with them than I would care to admit. I know how they think and how they behave. They can’t fool me with their vulgarities.<br />
<br />
“Can the dwarf perform tricks or read fortunes in salt?” Callenberg asks.<br />
<br />
“I can both read and write,” I tell him.<br />
<br />
Callenberg tilts his head back and laughs. He would howl with laughter no matter what I said, because dwarves are so droll, dwarves are entertaining in the same way that parrots are entertaining. We are creatures who serve only one purpose: we exist so that human beings can feel superior.<br />
<br />
Callenberg rubs his hand over his chins.<br />
<br />
He is the Lord Steward at the castle. Not just the Lord Chamberlain but the Lord Steward. That’s the sort of thing that the nobility care about. Their whole <i>raison d’être</i> lies in titles. The higher the title, the greater the reason they have for existing.<br />
<br />
“I can both read and write,” I repeat with annoyance. “I also know German, Latin, and a little French.”<br />
<br />
“And where has the dwarf learned these things?”<br />
<br />
I let my eyes survey the chamber. Exquisite portraits of Frederik IV hang on the walls. The drapes, which are a golden peach color, flutter in the breeze. There are chromium-plated mirrors with sullen looking angels. The strong scent of Hungarian cologne permeates the wallpaper. All very elegant,for those who have a taste for elegance.<br />
<br />
“I suppose the dwarf is also knowledgeable in Russian?”<br />
<br />
The Lord Steward looks at me with a condescending expression. Then he snaps his fingers and a chamberlain opens the lavishly embellished doors.<br />
<br />
“Tell the dwarf to come back tomorrow.”<br />
<br />
The First Secretary nods. He has a weak chin and a timid face — the sort of face that confirms the amount of time he has spent in submission to his master’s fury.<br />
<br />
Callenberg disappears down a long passageway lined with Venetian mirrors. The last I see of him are his hands behind his back and his thin legs beneath his stout body. After that he is swallowed up by the castle — and by the specters of all the kings who refuse to let go of the past.<br />
<br />
A few minutes later I’m escorted down several narrow staircases intended for the servants.The stairwell feels damp and clammy, and I very nearly slip on the high steps. Two dead bats are lying on the stairs. The archways are draped with cobwebs. The footman opens the door to the kitchen. In front of me is a vast room that goes on and on, as far as the eye can see. There are people everywhere: master cooks, footmen, errand boys, and pastry chefs. They’re rushing back and forth, armed with marzipan and mackerels and mulberries.<br />
<br />
I stare at the wooden spoons that are almost as long as I am tall. And at the pots containing saffron, the tubs holding Iceland cod and whiting in brine.<br />
<br />
We start walking.<br />
<br />
The kitchen makes me uneasy. There’s a strange mood in there, as if the kitchen were waiting for something. I pass two assistants who are making a pigeon pâté. A royal taster is sampling a sour burgundy. They are all in their own meaningless world; they are all waiting.<br />
<br />
The footman leads me over to a back door and opens it impatiently. When I turn around to ask him a question, he gives me a swift kick. Involuntarily I gasp with pain. Then the footman points to the moat and the high castle bridge. He points to the slum quarters, the flatbed wagons, and the flea market. When he slams the door, I angrily wipe my mouth and start walking.<br />
<br />
It’s still a hot summer day. The towers of Copenhagen are sweltering in the sun, and the barges gleam like silver in the canal. I head across the High Bridge to Færgestræde. A horsedrawn<br />
cart loaded with wine barrels almost forces me into the water. A moment later I vanish into the crowd among the coaches, soldiers, and loudly shouting fortune-tellers.<br />
<br />
3.<br />
I live on Vintapperstræde in the middle of the king’s city. It’s a narrow lane where violence hangs in the air. Not even our watchman dares make his rounds in that section of town.<br />
<br />
There are six distilleries, four taverns, and a few whorehouses. But I take pleasure in the atmosphere; it keeps me on my toes. The human being is an animal that fights to survive. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the part of town where I live.<br />
<br />
I share a wretched cellar room with my poor scoundrel Terje. His path through life has taken him from pub to prison,with involuntary stays at Bremerholmen. We’ve been together for four years. Before that I lived with another scoundrel who was also fond of misshapen females. In a way I’m in charge of my own curiosity cabinet. Each morning I haul myself out of the cabinet, brush myself off with a damp cloth, which is enough to turn the stomachs of many goodfolk —and then I listen to their comments.<br />
<br />
They say that I have an ancient face, that I’m descended from a demonic race. They think my head is deformed, that my fingers are stunted, that all the parts of my body are out of proportion. But who decides what is out of proportion?<br />
<br />
According to other wise folk, I belong to a noble race that has lived on earth longer than human beings — a race that has mysterious powers and can see into the future. That may be true, but I don’t really care. I have the same problems as everyone else. I eat, I shit, and one day I will die.<br />
<br />
When I step inside my cellar room, I find Terje curled up on the straw pallet. He is unwell, as usual, his body burrowed in day-old vomit. He is shaking with fever and a cold sweat. His face looks like mauve porridge speckled with yellow beard stubble. The Scoundrel looks up at me, his expression reproachful.<br />
<br />
“Where the devil have you been?”<br />
<br />
I ignore him and go over to one of my stools. I have three of them. The Scoundrel made them for me so that I could reach things in the larder. I don’t live in dwarf lodgings like other dwarves. I have no use for a dollhouse with sweet little dwarf doors. With a few objects to help me, I can manage to get by in the world — without extra assistance. There’s no reason to feel sorry for me.<br />
<br />
Right now I open the larder, which once again is half-empty. A rat leaps out with a scrap of cheese in its mouth. A moment later it darts through the wood shavings on the floor.<br />
<br />
I look at my scoundrel.<br />
<br />
“I have work at the castle.”<br />
<br />
Terje laughs scornfully and spits into the straw. He’s one of them —a human being. He’s tall and redhaired, with a chest like a Scanian rebel. He is usually quite handsome, but ever since Candlemas he has been sick with consumption. Now he looks shrunken and withered; his smell has taken over the whole room. I ought to be used to it. There are all sorts of different smells in the world when you live between the legs of goodfolk.<br />
<br />
I go over to Terje and study his face. I see the dull look of his eyes and his hair, which sticks out in greasy tufts. Then I wipe the fever from his brow. Sickness is Our Lord’s way of rooting out His children. The Devil is more merciful. The Devil has always been more merciful.<br />
<br />
“Don’t you want to hear anything about the fine people in the castle?” I ask.<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
“They have chairs made of gold in the offices,and there are mirrors on the walls—even on the inside of the doors.”<br />
<br />
“What for?”<br />
<br />
“So they’ll have a good view when they scratch themselves on the ass.”<br />
<br />
Terje laughs hoarsely. I stretch out my hand to him, but he knocks it away. Then I go over to my little box. It’s filled with herbs and healing salves: amanita, swallowwort, and mustard plasters. There is also a secret compartment containing tinctures. I open the box using a rusty nail that hangs around my neck. Then I select the herbs for a miracle-working elixir. And as I work, the voices come to me. They’re like birds flying around my head, birds that demand to be heard.<br />
<br />
I turn around to look at the Scoundrel.<br />
<br />
“ You’ll be dead by tomorrow,” I say.<br />
<br />
Terje nods, slowly and sadly. Outside the dogs are baying, and a drizzle settles over the city like a delicate silk coverlet. When Terje croaks, he’ll be the third scoundrel that I bury.Scoundrels don’t last very long, especially when they’ve been thrown in irons at Bremerholmen. But they’re needed in the house, particularly for a wench like me.<br />
<br />
“What the hell did the king want with you?”<br />
<br />
Terje has a malicious look on his face. I ignore him and pour beer into the birchwood tankards.<br />
<br />
“He probably wants to use you for a footstool.”<br />
<br />
I slap his face.Terje puts his hand to his cheek but is wise enough not to say anything more. He makes do with giving me a glare, but a glare that doesn’t seem to belong to him.<br />
<br />
I go over to the fireplace. The elixir is brown and bubbling; a bittersweet scent spreads through the room. I light another candle. There is only a small peephole in the cellar, because who would want to look out at Vintapperstræde? And who would want Vintapperstræde to look in at us?<br />
<br />
“Sørine?”<br />
<br />
“ Yes?”<br />
<br />
“ You’re a good sort.”<br />
<br />
I smile sadly. A few minutes later Terje starts to snore. It’s a familiar sound. I don’t like to admit it, but I’m fond of the sound. Terje’s snoring makes me feel calm. I don’t know why.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">The Tsar's Dwarf is translated by Tiina Nunnally (translator of Peter Hoeg's Smilla's Sense of Snow) and is published by Hawthorne Books in the US and Canada, Gaia Editions in France, and Mercado de Letras in Portugal. <br /><br /></span>Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-37973913528363199272016-10-19T06:33:00.001-07:002018-10-12T21:18:12.167-07:00Two Chapters in English From My Danish Novel Det Egyptiske Hjerte (The Egyptian Heart)<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mmRKlGYD7lo/V_6ak4I9k4I/AAAAAAAAEY4/m8buLBSR_Lou_lLVDyNdWwOpLi5xJjX7gCLcB/s1600/Det%2BEgyptiske%2BHjerte%2BSMUDS%2B11.9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mmRKlGYD7lo/V_6ak4I9k4I/AAAAAAAAEY4/m8buLBSR_Lou_lLVDyNdWwOpLi5xJjX7gCLcB/s400/Det%2BEgyptiske%2BHjerte%2BSMUDS%2B11.9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Det Egyptiske Hjerte (The Egyptian Heart) is a sweeping, often humorous and ultimately
life-affirming novel about reincarnation, eternal love and the
stories we tell about the past to make sense of our existence. It’s an
accessible, witty, and lively novel for those who love history, spirituality, and
thought-provoking storytelling about the inner connectedness of our
relationships.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">There are three storylines in the novel that
intertwine: One in 12th century Italy about the Venetian Doge, Pietro Polani
and one in contemporary Copenhagen with Zia, a historian who is writing a
thesis about an Egyptian explorer, Frederik Norden. </span></span><br />
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia and Pietro Polani are
both emotional, impulsive, and zany characters who have had experiences with
sexual abuse, mysticism, and fire. None of them is comfortable with dogmatic
systems but have a strange fascination with Egypt and the
Pyramids. Is Zia an incarnation of Pietro?</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">And is Frederik Norden Zia's guardian angel on her voyage into
herself?</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The reader will have fun
following the clues. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #000010; font-family: "segoe ui symbol";"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #000016; font-family: "segoe ui symbol";">The novel got a rave review from one of the leading literary critics in Denmark, Bjørn Bredal in Politiken.</span><br />
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"><i>The Egyptian Heart by Peter H. Fogtdal was published by Peoples Press in Copenhagen, Denmark. Foreign rights: Louise Langhoff Koch,</i> lolk@artpeople.dk </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol";"><span style="color: #000010;">The two sample chapters are <span lang="DA" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">translated by Mark Kline. The second one is a work in progress. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol";"></span><span style="color: #000010;"></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Chapter 1 </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Pietro</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Pietro Polani, the thirty-sixth Doge of Venice,
greets the person he hates most in the whole world.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The year
is 1144; world history hasn’t reached the lagoon yet. It’s preoccupied with the
Crusades and the Holy Land and paying no attention to Serenissima, the Venetian
Republic. Actually, the Doge has invited world history to the lagoon several
times, but world history keeps giving him the cold shoulder. World history has
nothing but contempt for sand banks and merchant fleets. It demands bloodbaths
of epic proportions - it insists on massacres of women and entire families. In
short, world history is a psychopath, and we’ll never understand it if we don't
recognize that.</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Pietro
Polani has been Doge for fourteen years. He has grown into the position in such
a way that he no longer knows where the Doge begins and Pietro ends. At the
tender <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__439_803707834"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__440_803707834"></a>age
of twenty-nine, he was elected because of his reputation for honesty and
intelligence. </span></span><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">But
now the most powerful families of Venice are tired of him because of his
honesty and intelligence. The times haven't been kind to Pietro Polani, who
wanted to be a Prince of Peace but instead inherited war. Wars are raging
everywhere around the Adriatic Sea. When one fire is put out, another flares
up. Hungarians attack the Dalmatian coast; Normans try to contain Venice; Padua
and Fano are sassy children who receive well-deserved spankings. The world is
aflame as always, but luckily it’s God's flame, so there's nothing we can do
about that. After all, who can we complain to? The Devil?</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">The Doge receives the Patriarch of Grado in the
Great Hall of the Doge Palace. The Patriarch is the Pope's representative in
the lagoon. He wields more power than a Cardinal and is number two in the
Church hierarchy. A herald bangs his spear on the stone floor and announces the
Patriarch in a high, piercing voice<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__6656_578157290"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__6657_578157290"></a> that ricochets off the walls, tapestries,
and trunks like stinging slaps to the face.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Pietro
Polani is surrounded by courteous servants and his loyal eunuch, Sano, who was
castrated at the age of twelve. The eunuch is a short man with tawny red hair
and a wrinkled face; he looks like a cross between an elderly man and an infant.
He carries several rolls of parchment under his arm. His lips are shaped into a
permanent sly smile. The table in the Great Hall is set for a feast, the icy
lagoon air oozes in through the smoke hole, the flames in the fireplace
flicker. Polani has donned a long ermine robe and leather gloves to keep warm.
He's wearing his lemon-yellow Doge skullcap and ear flaps, and a heavy chain of
gold hangs from his neck.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">The thirty-sixth Doge
of Venice is a thin man of medium height with small, friendly gray eyes, a
large nose, and lips outraged by his fellow humans' pettiness. His mouth is
small, his cheeks and intuition sharp, his hair and beard curly are every bit
as dark as the anxiety he bears.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
Patriarch of Grado sits at a large, heavy oak table, a gift from the Norman
Emperor that had been shipped from Sicily to the lagoon in 1138. The two men
are sons of merchants from the San Luca parish close to the Rialto Bridge. They
were childhood friends, though they show no sign of that now. Their shared past
can be sensed only as a migraine of the soul, but the Doge intends to appeal to
the best in the Patriarch, should there indeed be any best remaining to appeal
to. In other words, the Doge will look his old friend in the eye before
deciding whether or not to crush him.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">The Doge's Palace is not the present-day opulent
structure on St. Mark's Square, a palatial wedding cake featuring Byzantine
embellishments. Back then there was no glazed facade with broad arcade, marble
benches, and Gothic columns. Nor did the Lion of St. Mark's stand on its
pedestal, staring out at the horizon. And it still lacked wings – they flew in
from Persia or Egypt in or around the thirteenth century. The Doge's Palace was
nothing more than a large, clumsy Middle Age fortress with stout walls, four
round castle towers, and a closed courtyard for knights and their horses.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Only a
small segment of the Middle Age foundation survives today. It rose out of the
mud during excavations in the 1700s. Suddenly the gates holding back the repressions
of the twelfth century opened. Agonies and memories stood in line to escape;
they seeped up from the underground as murderous threats and unanswered
prayers, as frail voices, each with a story that segued into a cloud and sailed
over the lagoon. Stories never disappear. They bury themselves in the bodies of
cities and shape the geography. Stories engrave themselves into the minds of
humans and alter their perception of reality … or at least make them aware that
realities come and go, for Heaven knows, there are so many versions.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Pietro
Polani's waiter pours wine into the clay-colored mugs.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
large hall is dark, the air heavy with smoke and mildew. Inch-thick sheep rugs
cover the cool stone floor, but no matter how the Doge's men try to keep warm,
the freezing wind off the lagoon shows who's boss. One can’t tyrannize nature;
it always gets the last word, no matter the century.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The Doge
toasts the Patriarch.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
Patriarch toasts the Doge.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Sano the
eunuch closely observes both men. He has been looking forward to this meeting,
because he's convinced that blood will flow.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
Patriarch of Grado sits erect in his burgundy-colored robe and high hat. He was
born Enrico Dandolo, an uncle to the "real" Enrico Dandolo, who sixty
years later will be honored as having made Venice a major power. Why? Because
he burned to the ground the greatest city of the Middle Ages, Constantinople,
along with its 100,000 citizens. I repeat: the road to immortality is always
paved with greed. Think of idiots like Alexander the Great, Peter the Great,
and Napoleon. What do they all have in common? They could never get enough.
That's why they were great.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The Doge
and the Patriarch study each other over the knots of the oak table.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
spiders on the wall creep closer together.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Each of
these powerful men has devised a strategy for this meeting. The Patriarch has
thought through everything down to the tiniest detail, has considered his
arguments and weighed them on Biblical scales, whereas the Doge's strategy is
the exact opposite – he doesn't have one. The right words will appear when he
needs them. Pietro Polani is nothing more than a ventriloquist who seeks his
inspiration from St. Mark and trusts that inspiration will flow out of his
mouth at the proper time, and should that against all expectations not happen,
he will bequeath his fiasco to God – that's his strategy.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"I
have requested Your Excellency's presence to have a talk, man-to-man," the
Doge says. The Patriarch nods, but he's already on his guard. His eyes are
glued on Pietro, his one eyebrow raised as a sign of an unhealthy scepticism,
his fingers readying themselves for drum solos on the table, should they gather
the courage.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The Doge
stands up enthusiastically. "Do you remember when we went fishing in Rio
San Luca and found a body drifting down the stream?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
Patriarch of Grado stares in surprise at the Doge. "No."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"It
was the first dead man we'd ever seen."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Aha."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"You don't remember?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"No, unfortunately not," the Patriarch says. He reaches for
the documents he has laid on the table; if there hadn't been any documents to
reach for, he would have reached out for his wine mug, and if there hadn't been
a wine mug, he would have groaned a bit louder than he permits himself to now.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"You're the one who emptied his pockets and found the three silver
coins."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
Patriarch remains silent.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"The dead man worked for your father, didn't he?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"I
wouldn't know." The irritated glint in the Patriarch's eye seems to have
hardened.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Three silver coins was a lot back then. Do you remember what we
spent them on?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
Patriarch shakes his head.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"A
knife, Enrico. A very dull knife we bought at the market in San Salvador. We
took turns using it, and once we fought over it."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
Patriarch looks down at his boots; where else could he look, with the Doge
insisting on blabbering like a stupid hag. The mood in the Great Hall is dull
and listless, more so than at any time during the occupancies of the past
twenty Doges. In fact, there is no mood; it's fled to the lagoon, for a mood
can only take so much.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The eyes
of the Doge and the Patriarch meet for a few short seconds, but the Patriarch
doesn't like eye contact. He wishes only a dialogue with our Lord, for our Lord
is the only peer of the Patriarch, and even that is debatable.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"With your permission, Principe." Enrico studies his pudgy
hands. "Surely you haven't invited me here to talk about old times?" </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__14681_1732044049"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__14680_1732044049"></a><span style="color: #00000a;">"Indeed,
I have." Polani beams.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">A
nervous tic flashes over The Patriarch's face. Why is it that the Doge makes
him feel so insecure? Enrico is clearly more gifted and superior to Pietro in
every way, yet he feels as if he's tagging along behind when he is with his
childhood friend. Is it because of the respect associated with the
five-hundred-year Doge tradition? No, that can't be it, the Church has existed longer
than Serenissima, and besides, Jesus Christ is its King.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"So
you don't believe that our personal relationship has any influence on our
present-day disagreements?" the Doge asks.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"I
have no disagreement with you, Principe," The Patriarch says.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"For the love of God, Enrico." The Doge pounds his fist on the
table. "Can't you get it through your thick skull that I'm speaking to you
as a fellow human being? I'm trying my best to strip away the formality of our
positions, so we stand naked before each other – don't look so shocked, Enrico,
I'm speaking metaphorically here.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__5441_791241306"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__5442_791241306"></a> Come on now. We were together in The Holy
Land in the time of the old Doge, you even saved my life. Everything we went
through together, doesn’t that mean anything at all to you?”</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"There’s no reason to patronize me," the Patriarch snaps.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"There's every reason to patronize you, Enrico, otherwise we'll
never untangle this knot we're in. And may I remind you that I'm responsible
for the influence you now have as Patriarch."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Let's get down to business," Enrico snarls. How can one take
this fool in the Doge's Palace seriously, a man enthusiastic one moment and
phlegmatic the next, more known for his strange behavior than his capabilities?
Pietro Polani is not a good Doge. For the fourteen years he has sat on the
throne, he has been an unworthy representative for Serenissima. He is popular
among the citizenry, yes, because he has seduced the hearts of the poor, but
fortunately The Great Council clipped his foreign-policy wings before he could
do too much damage.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"With all due respect, Principe, what I mean is, it would be better
to –"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"I'm not sure you know what's 'better', Enrico, for you or for God.
But let's get down to business, as you so un-poetically call it. For almost a
year now you've attempted to thwart the appointments I've made, the latest of
which is the abbess of San Zaccaria. You swept my candidate aside and installed
your own."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"I
wouldn't use the word 'thwart'."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Well I would." Again the Doge slams his fist down on the
table. "Appointments to offices in Serenissima is a responsibility of my
office, which is why I take it as a personal affront when you overrule my
decision."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"I
act only with regards to the reforms of Pope Gregor, which His Holiness in Rome
wishes to be implemented –"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"And in that way you oppose me."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"This is not a personal attack on you, Principe."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Everything in this world is personal, Enrico," the Doge
yells, "and I’ve had enough. Last year you intervened by overruling a case
under the authority of the Bishop of Castello, but my appointment of the new
abbess in the San Zaccaria parish will not be disallowed, Enrico, is that
understood?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"With all due respect, the Church overrides the secular
world."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"So
now you’re saying that you also have no respect for the constitution of
Serenissima?" </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Of
course I do. I just have greater respect for God."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Then let's get everything out in this Light you claim to be
serving." The Doge smiles wanly. "Let's get it all out – your damn
pettiness, your lust for power, your enormous inferiority complexes, Enrico.
Let's look at how your monks break into cloisters and rape our sisters in the
name of God. How they acquire Bishop positions, not because they're pious but
because they're granted property with their purchase. Our beloved Church is
becoming more and more corrupt. What do you say to that, my fat friend?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Do
not call me your fat friend, Pietro."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"But you’re fat, and you are my friend," the Doge says
triumphantly, "so come down off your high Bible and talk to me man-to-man
before your intrigues drive me insane. This doesn't have to be so nasty,
Enrico. I don't enjoy being mean, but you're forcing me to be."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
Patriarch stands up and furiously gathers his documents. When he finally
speaks, his voice is shaking. "Principe, you should know that a messenger
was sent several days ago to His Holiness, to expedite a solution to our
problem –"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"To
which of the popes, my dear Enrico, Peter or Judas? Until recently there were
two of them."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">The
Patriarch's voice trembles. "New winds are blowing across our peninsula,
winds that will have great influence on our beloved Republic, but I see no
reason to speak more of this. It's out of my hands. Is there anything else,
Serenissimo Principe? More ridiculous accusations plucked out of thin air? Or
more pointless childhood memories you wish to bring up?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Pietro Polani rises.
"No, nothing more, Enrico. But I want you to remember one thing: we in
Serenissima have never bowed down to Sancta Sedes. We leave that to Pisa,
Genoa, and the other cowardly states. We respect His Holiness, but we’re not
his lapdog. Tell that to your damned messenger."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
Patriarch bows ironically, but as he and his shocked entourage are about to
depart from the Great Hall, the Doge steps forward and embraces him. To all
appearances it's a loving embrace – perhaps an apology for the rough words
spoken in the heat of battle? Or for the childish things spoken by the Doge
when he was offended? But no, it’s in fact a show of power. More than ever, the
Doge has need of demonstrating who may be on a first-name basis with him and
who may not, who may embrace the heads of the Church as if they were oversized
stuffed animals and who may not. All this is signified by the embrace the
Patriarch is forced to endure, from which he attempts to extract himself
without pushing the spindly, moody Doge away – Enrico can’t afford to do that.
He mustn't even use his talent for quick comebacks to put the Doge in his
place. All he can do is show his disgust by peering up at the ceiling or down
at the Emperor's oak table or at Sano, the eunuch, who is trying not to laugh
at the bizarre sight in front of him – the tall, angry Patriarch and the
strange Doge in a long, brotherly embrace. </span></span><br />
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> At last Pietro loosens his grip and
pounds Enrico hard on the back, as if he's an old mutt with a bone stuck in his
throat. Finally the Patriarch can leave the Great Hall, while the Doge is
thinking, what a nice day. Or is it a nice day? For who can weigh the
consequences of our small Pyrrhic victories? Who can weigh anything while
trying to understand something as delicate as a human life? The consequences of
what we do and don’t do follow us for centuries. Nothing disappears in this
world; all embraces, quarrels, and childish behavior come back to haunt us when
we least expect it. The Doge knows this, and therefore he should have acted in
a dignified manner, but he couldn't, because he was too wounded.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">We now
take leave of the deeply shaken Patriarch of Grado, who steps off the quay and
into his gondola displaying the silver and red colors of the Dandolo family. He
is followed by his scrivener, a Father, and three demons sitting on his shoulders,
screaming for revenge – how dare the Doge speak to the Church's most important
man in the lagoon as if he were a simple shepherd of souls! The demons will
make certain that the Patriarch is avenged, but more than five years will pass
before it happens.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Enrico
sails down the Rio Barrio and through the labyrinthine canals toward the clan's
courtyard in San Luca parish, while the banner of the Dandolos snaps in the icy
wind. When he arrives at the market at the Rialto Bridge, he is shaking from the
cold – and from an enormous rage he’s almost unable to control.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<br />
<br />
<i>The other main protagonist of the novel is the Danish-Egyptian historian Zia who is working on her thesis in today's Copenhagen. She was introduced in the prologue of the novel where she visited modern day Venice, so the readers of the full novel will have met her before the chapter you can read her.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The translation of this part may not be quite up to par yet but should give you a good idea of the different voices and characters of the novel.</i></div>
<i></i><br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Chapter 4</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia sits in The Black Diamond, the Royal Library
of Copenhagen, writing her thesis on the Egyptian explorer Frederik Norden. She has been working on
it for almost five months, but it isn't as far along as she would have wished.
There's way too much material, and Zia can't seem to get a grip on her thesis
statement. She's unable to get anything done today, but for the seventh time
she carefully reads the digital version of Norden's diary covering his dramatic
journey up the Nile in 1737-38, admiring his beautiful drawings of ancient
Egyptian relics.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The expedition left Livorno in May 1737 under
the leadership of a French count, Pierre Joseph le Roux D'Esneval, an elegant,
eloquent charmer with a talent for inveigling his way into the Royal courts of
Europe. He persuaded Christian the Sixth to finance the expensive journey by
bombarding his advisers with florid letters filled with lavish rococo boasts.
Because of the Danish kingdom's economic straits, the King didn’t dare pass up
a trade agreement with Ethiopia, a land said to be rich in gold, incense, and
ivory, and which could provide Denmark-Norway with sorely-needed slaves for its
new colonies in the West Indies. Christian the Sixth stipulated, however, that
a Dane must follow along, a watchdog to keep an eye on the Frenchman; some form
of control was necessary when the verbose Count began throwing around the
King's ecu.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">After a
brief stop in Sicily, the company reached Alexandria thirty days after
departure. They shared the passage with several Italian cavaliers, plus eight
harem girls imprisoned in a cage to insure their purity before reaching the
Sheik, who already had purchased them. Frederik's first sight of Egypt was a
turquoise streak on the horizon that gradually turned brown as they approached.
Two citadels slowly rose up out of the water, joined by several minarets, a few
church spires, and a sand-gray city wall. Pompei's Pillar stood on a hilltop, a
finger pointing to the sky. Turkish-occupied Egypt slammed into the journeyers
like a scalding slap to the face with its ochre yellow buildings, small sandy
streets, and ear-shattering mosques praising God five times a day. The prayers
were a bridge of yearning, though a yearning that Christians had to acclimate
themselves to, as was the case with the food, the heat, and the Janissaries
that Frederik Norden hired to protect him while he drew the ancient Egyptian
relics.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Almost
the entire company became sick the first week, from the drinking water, the
swarms of mosquitoes, and the July sun hanging over Alexandria like a sizzling
clump of butter; the heat was so intense by ten a.m. that they were forced to
stay indoors with the rats and beetles and the small desert snakes that loved
to nap in the cooking utensils. </span></span><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Led
by Norden and d'Esneval, the company began dressing more appropriately in Turkish
turbans, Arab tunics, and slippers, while they battled eye infection and camel
bites, along with miserable markets that sold little else than camel shit used
by Egyptians for fertilizer. They were greatly disappointed in Alexandria;
where was the cultural center described by Herodotus and Seneca? Where were the
famous libraries and Ptolemy's Lighthouse of Alexandria, one of the seven
wonders of the world? Where were the aesthetes, the bronzed Pharaohs and
magnificent temples with the beautiful hieroglyphics? Except for Cleopatra's
obelisk and Pompei's Pillar, Alexandria was nothing more than a
dysentery-infested provincial town with mangy dogs, broken-down donkeys, and a
poverty-stricken citizenry.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
nights were cool, and soon Norden developed consumption. He spent several weeks
on the dirty floor of his mud hut, where he was blood-let by the Count's French
doc<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__28200_421979917"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__28201_421979917"></a>tor,
Jacques Frois. When Norden finally recovered sufficiently, the company
continued on to Cairo, through the desert with black-clad Bedouins and dark
brown tents, experiencing wild desert storms and fabulous mirages that fooled
them into thinking they were back in Italy, where the wine was much better than
the Egyptian kind kept in goatskins. Fortunately, the trip from Alexandria to
Cairo took only five days on camel backs as soft as ottomans. Members of the
company developed eye infections that blinded them for a day or two. The
sixteen men took lodging in Old Cairo at an inn full of whores, pickpockets,
and Coptic monks, with a view of the Turkish Bey's harem. The company had
difficulty navigating the Egyptian labyrinth of narrow streets and dead ends.
Apparently there were many Cairos within Cairo, most of them off-limits to
Franks, the Egyptian name for Europeans. They had to pass through gates or
portals to reach the Mohammedans, who one day were friendly and helpful and the
next in a rage about some insult no one in the company had a clue as to what it
might be. </span></span><br />
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> One day the mob tried to burn down the company's inn, because two
members had insulted the Bey's harem by looking at the women during a
circumcision celebration. It developed into a fight involving camel drivers,
Bedouins, Nubians, Janissaries, cobblers, imams, water bearers, sword
swallowers, and the entire company, during which d'Esneval's wife, the
muscle-bound Countess of Trier, led the way, defending her husband with a pair
of scissors, while Norden lay sick as a dog, watching the battle surge back and
forth past his blood-let body. Meanwhile, the parade outside continued, the hundreds
of circumcised boys, opiated lions, entertainers, and half-naked mystics who
pawed at the Mohammedans' women and danced in religious ecstasy until
collapsing from exhaustion or death.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
company remained in Cairo longer than they had hoped because of the ongoing war
between the Arab sheiks and the Turks controlling Lower Egypt. Monsieur le
Compte bribed everyone he possibly could while entertaining the local upper
class. Oh yes, Le Compte knew how to mingle with the elite, with his refined manners
and honorable intentions, not to mention the long nails on his little fingers
and the heavy perfumes clinging to the scars on his cheeks, hanging around his
head like some nauseating cloud.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">The
Count also had time to send sycophantic letters to Christian the Sixth and the
Foreign Ministry, the German Chancellery in Denmark, in which he called the
King le plus Grand Roy de l'Europe. There was only one message behind all the
impressive platitudes: send more money, because he had to buy gifts to bribe the
sheiks along the Nile, not to mention the Nubian river robbers known for
sleeping with their own daughters – what else was there to do in the desert? </span></span><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Such were the rumors
of what the company could expect on the way to the Ethiopia of their dreams.
That type of cock and bull story didn't concern Frederik Norden, a man who
feared nothing and therefore tried to shake off what he thought was consumption
caused by the dry desert air, but was in fact a case of double pneumonia that
would kill him six years later.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Norden,
the Lutheran workaholic, could never relax. He took donkey taxis through the
dusty streets, visited mosques and Koran schools, drew marble water wells and
the Memphis Pyramids in Giza that impressed him, so much so that he revisited
them on the way home. Zia will write about that later, because she has loved
the pyramids since early childhood – one doesn't need to be half-Egyptian to be
enamored by them, nor does one need Egyptian roots to be spellbound by the
wonderful hieroglyphics, which passes itself off as a language even though it's
possibly nothing more than the Fourth Dynasty's version of Donald Duck.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">But on
November 18 in the Year of Our Lord 1737, Norden and the company finally set
sail on the Nile. </span></span><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">The
company now consisted of sixteen men packed onto the broad but crowded merkeb
that could be described as a floating Tower of Babel, as it carried men from
eight nations. On board were two priests from the Vatican, undoubtedly spies of
the Pope; several Turkish servants with more-than-sizable carbines; a Jewish
valet who constantly fought the Mohammedans; an aging Egyptian cook, a Syrian
Copt who had traveled on the Nile; an Abyssinian translator who later proved to
be d'Esneval's adopted son; Frois, the Count's French physician, who bled every
patient he could get his hands on; and the Count's previously-mentioned wife,
disguised as a man (otherwise she didn't stand a chance in Egypt). </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
merkeb began sailing up the Nile, its destination Nubia and Ethiopia – or not.
Officially the company was headed to Madagascar to trade with the Count's
cousin, who was governor of the island, but that's another story. And that is
in fact Zia's problem: nothing about this crazy story has anything to do with
her thesis, absolutely nothing, unless it can be seen as a metaphor for a small
country's ambitions of becoming a mighty colonial power like England, Spain,
France, Portugal, and Holland.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia puts
away Frederik Norden's diary and sighs.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">How in
the world will she ever focus her thesis on Danish foreign policy? She'd have
to research everything that had happened between 1730 and 174 and has no desire
whatsoever to do that. When push comes to shove, all Zia wants to do is to tell
the story about Frederik Norden from Lyksborg in Danish Holstein, but that's
not how a thesis should be written.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia
looks out across Reading Room West, where a horde of <i>real</i> academics sit
studying sources under muted reading lamps. Actually Zia doesn't give a shit
about method, putting events into perspective, analysis – she's only interested
in personal histories. She's felt this way since spotting Frederik in a window
on Fiolstræde, beside the drawing of an obelisk missing a nose. The First
Lieutenant actually doesn't look all that good in the copper engraving by
Marcus Tuscher. His eyes are too small and slanted, his nose awkward on the
narrow face with high cheekbones, topped by a powdered wig, but First
Lieutenant Frederik Norden, a draftsman, mathematician, adventurer, and
Egyptologist, has an aura of courage, strength, and sense of humor, together
with a surprising sensitivity that hides something – a secret that yearns to be
exposed<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__16693_1106391173"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__16694_1106391173"></a>, though three hundred years too late.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">And Zia
is the one who will uncover the secret, she's sure of it. That's why for a year
now she has studied his exciting (though dryly-written) diary covering the
dangerous expedition up the Nile. Like some stupid teenage fan girl, she tacked
a photocopy of the copper engraving above her computer, and now she stares into
Frederik's soul every single day. Zia has come to the conclusion that Frederik
Ludvig Norden was a kind, upstanding NCO in the Danish Navy who kept his cool
in dangerous situations. He was friendly and tolerant towards most people,
whether they were dignitaries or commoners; he had a healthy scepticism of
magic, superstition, and mythological tall tales the locals tried to pawn off
on him. But most importantly, the talented Norden left behind hundreds of
excellent though impersonal drawings of the ancient relics in Upper and Lower
Egypt, as well as sketches of daily life along the Nile, including the plowing
of wheat fields and the forced hatching of chicken eggs. If he had been her
dinner partner at a Danish party, she wouldn't have spent five minutes in
conversation with him. But when Zia looks at the copper engraving, she is
certain of one thing: she loves him in a way that she never has loved another
human being, and she can't let go of his story, no matter how hard she tries.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia stretches and walks down to the cafeteria to eat
lunch. She sits at a table beside one of the large plate glass windows
overlooking the canal; tourist boats sail by, the wind rattles the enormous
windows of the Black Diamond. She orders a tuna sandwich and mineral water, and
pays with her debit card. Immediately Nina shows up. She is Zia's age, and</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">works in the Institute's administration
office.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">"Hi Zia, how's
the thesis coming along?</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Oh, I don't know." Zia sounds a bit down. "I feel like
I'm completely stuck."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"If
I remember right, you have to hand it in soon, right?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Yes," she moans.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"May I sit down?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Sure, of course." Zia pulls out a chair. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Nina has
dark hair, beautiful brown eyes, and a narrow nose; her facial expressions are
animated. She has brought along her own lunch, a salad that she pulls out of
her bag along with two red napkins. "Who's your advisor, anyway? Is it
Mogens?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Yes."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Do
you like him?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia
nods. "A lot."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Nina
looks surprised. "Really? I'm glad to hear that, because a lot of people
sure don't."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Why not?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"You can probably guess why." Nina plucks out the tomatoes
from her salad and lays them on her napkin. They both laugh, and Zia takes a
long pull on her mineral water. Nothing dehydrates her more than dry sources.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Can I ask you something really weird, Nina?" Zia tilts her
head to one side.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Absolutely."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">"Have
you ever thought about how certain historical figures fascinate us, and we
don't really know why? Sure, there are all kinds of rational psychological
explanations for it, like childhood experiences, cell memory, DNA, blah blah
blah, but I just think there are deeper reasons why we relate to some stories
and not to others ..."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">"I've never
really thought about that, Zia."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Okay. What if there are stories that only could be told by us and
nobody else?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"You know what? I wouldn't talk about stuff like that to
Mogens," Nina says.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"No, of course not." Zia laughs. "But I really believe
we're fascinated by stories describing our own mystical journey through time
and space. Stories about how we deal with problems, or how we should deal with
problems, because we might be either stronger or weaker than we think we are.
Does that make any sense at all, or am I just babbling?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Nina
eats her salad without responding, and Zia begins to regret speaking so openly.
But on the other hand, she's tired of being "reasonable." Sitting
there looking out across the canal at the warehouses, she almost feels she has
come out of the academic closet at its very center, The Black Diamond.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"How long have you been studying history, Zia?" Nina wipes her
mouth with her red napkin.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia
blushes. "Nine years or something like that."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Have you been working too?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"At
7-Eleven, though I don't mention that to a lot of people."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Nina
puts down her knife. "I really like you, Zia, but you're going to have to
write your thesis the good old-fashioned way. Which means you should concentrate
less on the person and more on following your thesis statement. </span></span><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Otherwise you'll run
into too many problems, right?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia
leans forward. </span></span><span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">"I talk to him sometimes, Nina."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Who?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Frederik Norden."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"How do
you do that?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"It's
difficult to explain, but we talk together."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Oh-kay." Nina gathers her things. "So what does Mr.
Norden tell you?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"To
write the truth about him."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"I know
Norden isn't a household name, Zia, but a lot has been written about him
already," Nina protests.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia nods.
"True, but no one has covered all the facets of his personality. People
are only interested in his drawings and his diaries, not in him, and that
bothers him."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"And you
know this because you speak with his ghost?" Nina smiles wryly.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"I talk
to his soul, Nina. We're all immortal."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Deep furrows
appear on Nina's forehead. "So let me get this straight: this man who died
about three hundred years ago, you're helping him to be better understood, is
that right?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Lots of
dead people feel they didn't finish what they were supposed to accomplish,
Nina. Norden was only thirty-three when he died, and he didn't live to see his
drawings and diaries published. I feel bad about that, okay?" Zia regrets
bringing all this up.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Nina's hands
are akimbo. "Oh-kay."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Contact
between the dead and the living is a lot more common than we think. It has
nothing to do with our fantasies. We don't understand the nature of time."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Maybe
so, Zia, but right now time is telling me I have a meeting at one. I have to
run, okay?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Nina smiles
and gives Zia a hug, and rushes out of the cafeteria. Zia sighs and glances up
at the cafeteria's counter. Suddenly she feels the need for a strong beer;
Frederik Norden probably does too.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Two lovers
sit on the edge of the wharf, taking in the pale autumn sun. They know it's not
coming back for another nine months.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">For the rest
of the day, Zia is in a black mood.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">The next morning, Zia grabs a quick breakfast with her
boyfriend, Tue. They sit in their small kitchen looking out over the rear
courtyard with the big oak tree, a bicycle shed, and the clotheslines from the
60s, which look like some depraved form of commercial design.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"What
are you doing today?" Zia is in her old kimono this morning frying eggs. She
slept like shit; it's about time for her period, that's probably why. And the
full moon doesn't help either.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Tue doesn't
answer. He's dressed and is texting someone. It's been like this ever since
they got home from Italy. Tue seems frustrated, discontented, as if he is
mourning the fact he isn't in Italy any more. Every day he goes to the Main
Station and buys a copy of Gazzetto dello Sport, even though it's pink and
there's never more than a quarter page about team handball.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Can't
you talk to me a little before you go, please?" Zia sits down at the
kitchen table and sets a black cup of coffee in front of her boyfriend.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Tue slaps his
phone down with a vengeance and stares at Zia. "Yeah, I really should take
advantage of the opportunity when it comes along."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"And
what's that supposed to mean?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"What do
you think it means?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia tilts her
head. "So, you think I'm too distracted, right?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Distracted isn't the word. You're just psychotic, that’s
all."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"I have
a fucking deadline, Tue. You're a religious historian, you of all people should
know."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"There's
also something called life, Zia. You know, going out, catching a movie. There's
a Vivaldi concert at Tivoli's concert hall I'd like to go to." He shoves
his phone over to her and shows her an ad for a Russian symphony orchestra.
"Vivaldi is from your period, okay, but I don't feel like begging for your
attention anymore. It's fucking degrading."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Grouchy now,
Tue stands up and drinks his coffee in one long gulp. He shoves his phone into his
pocket.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Being
mad at me has nothing to do with Vivaldi, does it, Tue?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">He puts on
his coat and walks out the door without saying goodbye. When Zia hears his
footsteps on the stairs, she's not sure if she's sad or relieved.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">An hour
later, Zia leaves for the Institute to attend a lecture. She backs her red road
bicycle out of the shed and rides through the autumn air in eighth gear. Yellow
leaves dot the sidewalks, even though it's only the beginning of September.
Summer has unashamedly headed south. Zia loves it when nature shakes off August
and prepares for its execution; this year it's apparently coming sooner than
usual.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia parks her
bike outside the Institute, where people are still ambitiously combing through
old books. Unfortunately she has left behind the bike lock she usually carries
in her bag. She always forgets to bring something along. As she walks up the
stairway, she asks herself again what the hell she's doing here. The study of
history is a parking <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__13897_1674755515"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__13896_1674755515"></a>lot for neurotics who can't seem to let
go of the past. You can't study history without being a control freak, which is
why there are so many men at the Institute – men who instead of going into
therapy dig around in the past to avoid emotional involvement. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia does a
half-assed job of brushing her unruly black hair – what a mess, what a waste of
time! – and walks down the hallway. She runs into Mogens, something she'd hoped
and not hoped would happen.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Look
who the cat dragged in," Mogens says. He is a teddy bear of a man in his
early 60s, with glasses, suspenders, and a Karl Marx-like full beard. He’s also
Zia's thesis advisor. "You've been a stranger here lately."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"I've
been on vacation in Venice with Tue." Zia blushes, as if she's just
confessed to a crime.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Why
Venice? Wouldn't Egypt have been more logical?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Tue is
into Italian religious history."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Step
inside my office with me for a moment, okay?" Mogens lays a fatherly hand
on her shoulder. Zia nods, even though she doesn't have time. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">As always,
his office looks like some relic from 1979 that someone tossed a grenade into.
Books and manuscripts are piled high on tables, chairs, and in corners. The
only window in the office is half open, but it can't cover up the reek of pipe
tobacco trailing Mogens. An old poster from an exhibition at Frederiksborg
Castle and a framed print of Ole Rømer hang on the wall. Zia notices a copy of
Gyldendal's World History on a bookshelf, a book her father had at home, plus
several books about the era of absolute monarchy in Denmark. Mogens wrote a
famous thesis paper on Danish-Russian relations during the Great Northern War,
1702-1719, and his articles have been published in English, German, and Russian
scholarly journals.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"So, how
are things going with Mr. Norden?" Mogens asks. He collapses into his blue
IKEA chair. "I have to admit, I've missed him a bit."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Me,
too." Zia sighs. She removes papers and brushes off half-crushed sweet
biscuits from a chair. She feels at home in this chaotic office, with its brown
sofa and uncool orange cushions. If Mogens had been the neat type, she'd never
have chosen him as her thesis advisor. His suspenders and fatherly manner had
also helped, plus they'd just seemed to click. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Listen,
I need to read some of it pretty soon, if that's not too much to ask?" He
cleans his glasses with his sleeve. "You can't keep me hanging like this,
the suspense is too much. I'm only human."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"You
have read the first pages," Zia smiles tentatively.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Let's
see, when was that now? Before or after the First Punic War?" He smiles
and tosses an old paper coffee cup in the wastebasket.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"I'm
just experimenting with the form and thesis statement right now," she
admits. "I'm not sure it's at a stage where I should show it to
anyone."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"It's close to impossible to change your
thesis statement this late in the day, my friend. You signed a contract with
us, didn't you? And besides, what's wrong with Frederik Norden's Egyptian
journey and ..." He looks at her.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Frederik Norden's Egyptian journey as an expression of Danish
expansionist foreign policy 1730-39."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"And
there are also some questions and sub-questions in the thesis statement. There
has to be, right?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Of
course," Zia answers quickly.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Well
then, that's wonderful. Am I the one that formulated them?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"More or
less, yes."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Then
you’ll definitely pass." Mogens winks at her.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"But
there's not enough airport bestseller in it, is there?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Not if
you're thinking you can sell your thesis in airports." He leans back, his
chair creaks. "Listen, Zia, if I wasn't so lazy, I'd offer you a cup of
coffee and pastry, but in five minutes I have to go in and bore some freshmen
to death." He stretches. "But as you know, I’m an open and generous
human being – at least that's what my wife says. And that's why I want to cut
you as much slack as I can, but it would be a good idea if you stopped by my
house so we could go more into depth with our Egyptian adventurer and your
thesis statement. Your thesis is going to have to answer some questions. We're
not involved in therapy here at the Institute, now, are we?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"It
almost feels that way," Zia says, relieved now. Her laugh is short.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Oh yes,
I know what you mean. We historians fall in love with our material, it beckons
us and lures us. That's why we're surprised when it doesn't follow orders.
There can be a lot of reasons for that, right? Sometimes we haven't found the
right key, other times we haven't thought our intentions through well enough.
Our thesis statement is too contrived, our questions are too vague, our sources
aren't as convincing as we thought, we aren't as convincing as we thought,
dammit … but there comes a time when we have to show our work of genius to the
world. And the world is sitting right here in its messy office, telling you to
stop by for a glass of wine and some cheese, and we'll plan out what's going to
happen to you and your Egyptian boyfriend."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">
</span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Okay." Zia blushes and squirms a bit in the chair.</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"Easy,
old gal. You'll survive my suburban Hvidovre home, but we’re going to make damn
sure you get your Masters, so you can go out into the world, into life,
whatever you want to call it."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"I'm not
always so crazy about life, Mogens." </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">"A fine
young girl like you who’s just been to Venice with your boyfriend – what the
hell is there to complain about?"</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span></span><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;">Zia laughs nervously
and stands up. She wants out of this little office, suddenly there are too many
dark books closing in on her, so she winds the meeting up as smoothly as
possible and runs down the hallway toward the bathroom. Then<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__3506_1073519043"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__3505_1073519043"></a>
she changes her mind and sprints outside. She hops on her bicycle and pedals
off, but quickly she's gasping for breath and has to stop. Blood pounds in her
temples; she sits down on some wet steps, closes her eyes, and tries to
breathe. Slowly she finds that peaceful spot<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__21891_1959775784"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__21892_1959775784"></a>
inside herself, and when she opens her eyes the world returns, one pixel at a
time.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">A man
and his German Shepherd stare at her from across the street.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">A water
puddle reflects a yellow traffic light.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "segoe ui symbol" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #00000a;"> </span></span><span style="color: #00000a;">The
world is here and now, there's something reassuring about that, so what is
there to complain about, other than absolutely everything?</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #00000a; font-family: "segoe ui symbol";"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #00000a; font-family: "segoe ui symbol";"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #00000a; font-family: "segoe ui symbol";"><i>Published by Peoples Press in November, 2015. Foreign rights, Louise Langhoff Koch, </i>lolk@artpeople.dk</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pu0L9VZeXk4/V_6hIAKcBYI/AAAAAAAAEZI/Lfswv5jdJik0dPfg5QhAlDdQdKxNnXuEgCLcB/s1600/Politiken%2Bboghandel%2Bsignering%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pu0L9VZeXk4/V_6hIAKcBYI/AAAAAAAAEZI/Lfswv5jdJik0dPfg5QhAlDdQdKxNnXuEgCLcB/s320/Politiken%2Bboghandel%2Bsignering%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
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<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Book signing in Politiken's boghal, November, 2015.</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-6289892699819698852016-09-13T08:21:00.001-07:002016-09-13T21:17:09.457-07:00'Faster', 'Quicker', and 'More' Are Assassins of the Soul (Thoughts After a Teen's Tragic Death in Portland) <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3ZN5BvbHXYs/V8r2WkWgk7I/AAAAAAAAEWU/puCoTvBVIrEt6N6wJNKgkmurME_owBn3wCLcB/s1600/Accident%2BPDX.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3ZN5BvbHXYs/V8r2WkWgk7I/AAAAAAAAEWU/puCoTvBVIrEt6N6wJNKgkmurME_owBn3wCLcB/s320/Accident%2BPDX.JPG" width="208" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
A 15-year-old girl was killed outside one of my favorite cafes in Portland a few weeks back. She crossed Hawthorne Boulevard in the cross walk and was hit by a
reckless driver who drove off while she was bleeding to death in the
street.<br />
<br />
The following day I talked to a young barista in my cafe
who had witnessed the crash. "It's the most gruesome thing I'd ever
seen in my life," she said, "I'll never forget it, but we have a good
community here. People are really coming together." <br />
<br />
A few hours a<span class="text_exposed_show">fter
the girl's death, hundreds of flowers were gathered on the sidewalk. The
middle lane was occupied by protesters and a sign read, LANE CLOSED
UNTIL THE KILLING STOPS. People brought candles, teddy bears, and cards.
A few people even camped out. The dead teen from Franklin high school had been in a chorus, and
the chorus sang where their friend had died.</span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<br />
The reason why I witnessed some of this is strange. I had attended a
medium class in the back room of the cafe where we receive messages from
those who have passed. And no, I don't claim to be in touch with her soul, but I know this with 100% certainty: There are no
coincidences when it comes to death, and something extremely important
will come out of the tragic crash. <br />
<br />
First of all, thousands of
people have been touched by what happened, and every single of us
received a gift: Once more we're reminded of the insane way we live -
how dangerous our own impatience is; how easily we get caught up in our
self-absorbed problems, and how we forget to appreciate the love and the abundance everywhere: the invaluable gift of a gorgeous
dawn, a child or a cat sleeping on our lap, the way the light falls
through the window.<br />
<br />
There is so much beauty in this world, but we don't
see that because we're too busy texting, shouting at the mailman or
blaming politicians for the ills of our society. 'Faster', 'quicker', and 'more' are assassins of the soul. Is it really that important we're ten minutes late? Do we hate our fellow man so much we think we have the right to drive 70 miles down a busy street and take our anger out on the world that hasn't given us what we think we need? For Christ's sake, let's all slow down, breathe in the sun set, and be human beings first and zombies second.<br />
<br />
So yes, fifteen year old Fallon's death was unbelievably tragic, but it wasn't meaningless. Pedestrian safety will improve on the busy street, and her awful demise touched the soul of thousands of people in Portland. Death always serves a larger purpose. We're all here to help each other, and sometimes we become teachers by sacrificing our life through a tragic traffic accident.<br />
<br />
<b>None of us know why it's meant to be like that</b>, or why Fallon had to leave her family and friends, but at first any tragedy seems senseless and will be a challenge and a wake up call to a community. So what do we do when the shock and the understandable anger pass? Do we continue to see life as unfair and brutal (which it definitely is at times), or do we understand that the only way we can honor the dead is by living more compassionate lives ourselves?<br />
<br />
Luckily, the barista who witnessed the fatal crash understood the latter, and
even though I don't know her, I got a strong sense that the scar on her
soul will make her an even more compassionate soul than she
is already.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LTtwqrY5clk/V7yaKx36dfI/AAAAAAAAEVU/mvUhtCuzDtgLhheWzYq6PAQ0nm-DMlTUQCLcB/s1600/Crash%2B1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LTtwqrY5clk/V7yaKx36dfI/AAAAAAAAEVU/mvUhtCuzDtgLhheWzYq6PAQ0nm-DMlTUQCLcB/s320/Crash%2B1.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br />
PS. Let's all send loving thoughts and prayers to Fallon from Franklin high school and to her grieving family and friends. If this post can help anyone please be kind enough to share!<br />
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******* <br />
<br /></div>
Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-28007329127000192092016-08-04T08:22:00.000-07:002017-03-07T14:57:41.020-08:00In an Ancient Forest in Oregon (Where Nirvana Is Just a Short Cut Away)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vpA7tbf5FG8/V5teKvUqQ3I/AAAAAAAAETE/RwAF5hl67vkRcY5IlV75raEfXACoNOt_QCLcB/s1600/2016%2BTryon%2BCanyon%2B1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vpA7tbf5FG8/V5teKvUqQ3I/AAAAAAAAETE/RwAF5hl67vkRcY5IlV75raEfXACoNOt_QCLcB/s400/2016%2BTryon%2BCanyon%2B1.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I love the silence that falls from trees. I'm not sure I can live
without this majestic void where everything is possible, and where the sound
of the world is crucified and everything dissolves, reincarnates,
breathes.<br />
<br />
Suddenly you hear the sound of wings, a symphony of
ants marching through the grass; a squirrel staring at you through the
leaves followed by stillness. It's two seconds of Paradise you want to
hold on to, so you can forget your mind monsters - doctor appointments,<span class="text_exposed_show">
the vapid insults from September, 2002, those mails you shouldn't have
written yesterday. Now an inner voice cuts through the white noise,
descending from angels and devas, or perhaps it's just another podcast
trapped in your subconscious?</span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
Then silence again, this eternal stillness where nothing and everything
matter. You can hear your heart beat through your T-shirt - and the
world's heart, too, as if you and everything were part of it, and you
are, we all are.<br />
<br />
You slowly close your eyes and the world
disappears. Your breath goes deeper into your lungs, chest, and stomach,
into the ocean that's the ancient you. You're with the gods now,
Nirvana is just a short cut away, Enlightenment appears as a gentle
breeze that's about to engulf you; then a sudden longing for gelato and
blow jobs, and you want them now, they can't wait ... but those longings
disappear as well in the sagebrush, the wild bleeding hearts, and into
the secret forest you thought belonged to fairy tales and nursery
rhymes.<br />
<br />
Dusk breaks through the maple trees. Every branch becomes
golden, as if it's lit up from within. Goosebumps travel up your legs
because everything is so holy and sacred that you want to cry - the
light blue sky, the joy that rises out of bird song, the cravings that
spice up your life. On your way out of the forest, you run into a family
with a pitbull that smiles at you. You're alive.<br />
<br />
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Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-61920036403057975602016-07-19T13:34:00.000-07:002017-07-07T18:11:45.095-07:00How One Memorable Line in Dennis Potter's 'The Singing Detective' Stayed With Me for Thirty Years<div data-contents="true">
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<span data-offset-key="4gr8r-0-0"><span data-text="true">Almost thirty years ago, I saw a brilliant British TV mini-series and musical by Dennis Potter called The Singing Detective that is considered a classic today. Michael Gambon played a bitter and darkly funny mystery writer hospitalized with a severe form of psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis. His name was Philip E. Marlow (!) and he often fell into fantasies about being a suave detective, but when he was awake in his hospital bed, he made life miserable for everybody around him.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4cfl2-0-0"><span data-text="true">At one point, one of the doctors had the guts to ask Marlow why he was so angry. What did he want from life when he was a younger man? For the first time Michael Gambon's character softened up and whispered, <i>"I would have liked to have used my pen to praise the loving God and all His creations ... I would have liked to have seen hosts of translucent angels climbing on spinning shafts of golden light deeper and deeper into the blue caverns of Heaven."</i></span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="97a0s-0-0"><span data-text="true">I remember how those lines hit me in my thirty year old gut, even more than the dark humor, the melancholy, and the hilarious fantasies. It was surprising because I was an atheist back then - but ten years later I understood why. Even though I've never been bitter and hospitalized (at least not hospitalized), I was an extremely frustrated writer in my early thirties. I wrote humorous TV-plays and sketches for national Danish TV and radio and didn't like it, even though I thought I should. I sensed there was more to life and me than satire and one liners, but I couldn't find out what. It was only when I became a novelist and gave my books a spiritual angle, I felt proud of my work.</span></span></div>
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So why do pieces of dialogue stay with us for decades? Do I want to praise God and all His creations in my work? Do I see <span data-offset-key="4cfl2-0-0"><span data-text="true">hosts of translucent angels climbing on spinning shafts every time I reach for my notebook</span></span><span data-offset-key="4cfl2-0-0"><span data-text="true">? </span></span><br />
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<span data-offset-key="4cfl2-0-0"><span data-text="true">I wish, but today I am a mystic who wholeheartedly believes in the good as the guiding force in the universe. I want my novels to be uplifting and quirky without being sappy. Like the world, my work is full of drama, conflicts, and sadness, but they always have hope. I refuse to write fiction that is cynical. Even The Tsar's Dwarf that has a darkly funny protagonist leaves the reader with a sense of hope - at least I hope so. The dwarf Sørine has been abused all her life, but she slowly opens up and starts to trust others. That's how <i>real</i> life begins - by trusting other people and by consciously choosing <i>not</i> to become bitter.</span></span><br />
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The Singing Detective is a very funny masterpiece about self-discovery through imagination, reliving and editing the past, and rising above adversity in unexpected ways. The video above is a scene from the first episode of the mini-series. It's not spiritual in any sense. Actually, at first it's just sad, but if you watch the whole scene you'll be rewarded with one of funniest musical numbers of all time.<br />
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PS. <br />
The Singing Detective was later turned into a Hollywood movie with Robert Downey Jr. in the lead, but as most people agree, it didn't capture the magic of the original starring Michael Gambon.<br />
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*****<br />
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<br />Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-35024083553937181562016-06-17T11:08:00.000-07:002017-07-07T18:05:36.319-07:00San Marino - Long Live All the Tiny Countries in the World, Microstate Kitch and All <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span data-offset-key="7tv1h-0-0"><span data-text="true">San Marino is a country that makes Denmark look like a continent. </span></span><br />
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<span data-offset-key="71hj9-0-0"><span data-text="true">This miniature state is only the size of a toenail, surrounded by Italian foothills, a speck of dandruff in the short hairs of Dante and Berlusconi, cute as a button, graced as it is by a medieval fortress, Borgo Maggiore that you don't see better in Transylvania or Disneyland. </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="71hj9-0-0"><span data-text="true">Tourist shops galore are scattered in the cobble stoned streets. Some of them even sell the kind of assault weapons that would make your Republican congressman drool, but you're better off buying an ashtray in San Marino's pale blue colors - a memory of the sore hamstrings you got climbing the streets in this memorable and adorable kitsch museum. Yes, Americans, in San Marino you have to <i>walk</i>. No wonder so few of you have been here! The air condition doesn't work that well, either. The locals, all 32,000 of them, prefer the fresh mountain air, primitive as they are.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4eb0m-0-0"><span data-text="true">And hey, let's not forget San Marino's football team that's ranked 179th in the world. They've only beaten Liechtenstein which happened April 28, 2004, a national holiday now, or at least it should be. I do hope San Marinos make it to the Euro or the World Cup some day. If Iceland can, everything is possible!</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="3ccs2-0-0"><span data-text="true">Yes, it's hard being small, a Dane should know that better than most, but San Marino has survived for centuries. It may be the oldest republic in the world, smiling wistfully at the tourists coming up in buses from skanky Rimini. Tanned Austrians roam the streets in search of decent wienerschnitzel; loud Estonians drink everything they can get their Baltic hands on. Even the Brits with their delicate lobster skin look for the meaning of life while admiring the gorgeous views from the restaurants that are glued to the mountain side and could fall off if an earthquake hits the area. </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="3ccs2-0-0"><span data-text="true">But don't worry about that. God and Saint Marinus have protected the microstate for centuries. God has kept San Marino out of the European Union and saved its trigger happy citizens from the all-American massacre that would destroy tourism. </span></span><span data-offset-key="e3fre-0-0"><span data-text="true">I mean, La Serenissima Repubblica di San Marino has outlived all other Renaissance city-states on the Italian peninsula. When global warming has melted the last gelato, San Marino and the cockroaches will still be here. </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="35rd6-0-0"><span data-text="true">So please visit the picturesque Republic of Legoland, friends. I seriously camp-loved it and would recommend it the same way I recommend Solvang, the Danish hamlet surrounded by airhead Californians, or Monaco, the tax free Botox haven of Southern France where you can whitewash your money while you get shitfaced on kir.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5l6sj-0-0"><span data-text="true">Long live tiny countries. The world needs us more than you think! </span></span></div>
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Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-43215954395281844322016-05-30T11:44:00.000-07:002024-01-11T15:17:15.746-08:00Denmark for Dummies 2016 (A Superficial Guide to the Happiest Nation in the Universe. And That Includes Mars, Too) <br />
Winner of <a href="http://www.denmark.net/jazz">www.Denmark.net's</a> International Contest, 2009. However, you may want to go to the updated version <a href="http://fogtdal.blogspot.com/2017/04/denmark-for-dummies-2017-superficial.html">Denmark for Dummies 2017</a> <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFVB6foFZzI/AAAAAAAAAnE/zwJTbAStgY4/s1600-h/Danmark+002.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212144616929060658" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFVB6foFZzI/AAAAAAAAAnE/zwJTbAStgY4/s400/Danmark+002.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" width="400" /></a> <span style="font-size: 78%;">All
Danes are blond and gorgeous. And every single of us has a cabin with a
view of a lake. No wonder the whole world wants to be Danish, but don't
get your hopes up. We're very protective of our gene pool.
</span><br />
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You're smart.<br />
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You're planning to go to Denmark.<br />
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You've always wanted to visit our country because you <i>know </i>that
it's the most exciting in the world. You tell yourself, "Why
would I want to visit Barcelona, Berlin or Nepal when I can go
rock climbing on Falster?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, I'm trendy. Aarhus is going to be the European Cultural City in 2017, and the Danes are so green with their bikes,
cuisine, and wind mills. And they're the happiest people in the world. Denmark always makes the news for positive
reasons, like killing healthy giraffes in Zoos, or harassing refugees at the border so they get so desperate they flee to Sweden."<br />
<br />
That's right. Four times Denmark was named the happiest nation on earth by the UN World Happiness Report.
And I'm living proof of that. Right now this novelist is staring at the sleet, enjoying the 44 degrees of
sloppy spring, while sipping his $12 latte.<br />
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Come and visit us, will you? And please bring <i>all</i> your credit cards because God knows you're going to need them!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> GUIDE TO DENMARK</b></span><br />
<b> A superficial introduction to your Southern Scandinavian Paradise. </b><br />
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<b>Name:</b> Denmark (Danmark)<br />
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<b>Inhabitants:</b> 5.6 million<br />
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<b>Capital:</b> Copenhagen (1.5 million)<br />
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<b>Ranking:</b> Most Livable City in the World (Monocle, British Magazine, 2008, 2013, 2014)<br />
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<b>Other Top Rankings That We Take Ridiculous Pride In: </b><br />
a) Most Trusting People in the World (April 2011)<br />
b) Best Restaurant in the World (Noma, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2014)<br />
c) Most Pork Consumption Per Capita (not counting your neighborhood Sheikh)<br />
d) Best Government in the World (2014)<br />
e) Second Best City to Visit in Europe in 2016 According to Lonely Planet: Aarhus<br />
f) Least Corrupt Country in the World, 2016 (We paid a lot of bribes for that position) <br />
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<b>Language:</b> Danish.<br />
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<b>Government:</b> Constitutional monarchy.<br />
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<b>Currency:</b> Kroner. (6.6 DKK to a US dollar, 0.04 to the Angolan Kwanza)<br />
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<b>Religion:</b> No, thank you.<br />
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<b>Name of Queen:</b> Margrethe II.<br />
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<b>Name of Prime Minister</b> Lars Løkke Rasmussen, or as the opposition calls him, The Little Swindler.<br />
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<b>Size:</b> The 8th biggest country in the world if you count Greenland. (Always count Greenland).<br />
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<b>Weather:</b> Not really.<br />
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<br />
<b>Unemployment Rate:</b> Rising<br />
<br />
<b>Hospitality If You're Not White:</b> Falling<br />
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<b>Crime per Capita:</b> Fourth lowest in the world.<br />
<br />
<b>Average Consumption of Beer per Capita:</b> Fourth <i>highest </i>in the world.<br />
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<b>Best Selfie of the Decade:</b> Ex-Prime Minister Helle Thorning-Schmidt with her two secret lovers.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2Fj1bg_vfiI/U0BTAyESVpI/AAAAAAAADUc/FSi5P4DRswA/s1600/Helle,+Obama,+Cameron+selfie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="345" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2Fj1bg_vfiI/U0BTAyESVpI/AAAAAAAADUc/FSi5P4DRswA/s400/Helle,+Obama,+Cameron+selfie.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Famous Dead Danes:</b>
Hans Christian Andersen, Søren Kierkegaard (philosopher), King Canute
(conquered England), Tycho Brahe (conquered the universe), Isak Dinesen
(conquered Africa), Karen Blixen (conquered Meryl Streep), Vitus Bering
(explorer, had a strait named after him), Niels Bohr (physicist), Georg Jensen (design), Carl Nielsen
(composer), Carl Dreyer (film director), Victor Borge (comedian),
Bertel Thorvaldsen (sculpturer), Hamlet (Shakespeare's boy toy).</div>
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<b>Famous Living Danes: </b>
Caroline Wozniacki (tennis player), Lukas Graham (singer), Lars
von Trier, Susanne Bier (film directors), Margrethe Vestager (EU Commissioner and Google's worst enemy), Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Mads Mikkelsen (actors in Game of Thrones, Hannibal, James Bond), Lars Ulrich (founder of Metallica), Jussi Adler-Olsen (the Danish Stieg Larsson, just
alive), Kasper Schmeichel, Michael Laudrup, Lord Bendtner (soccer players), René Redzepi (chef), Bjarke Ingels (architect), Margrethe II (Queen of Denmark), Mary (Crown Princess of Tasmania) <br />
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<b>Famous Half Danes:</b> Viggo Mortensen, Scarlett Johansson, Ludvig Holberg.<br />
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<br />
<b>Danes Who Ought to Be Dead:</b> Jante.<br />
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<b>Danish TV-Series That Have Conquered the World and Perhaps Mars, Too:</b> The Killing (Forbrydelsen), Borgen, The Protectors (Livvagterne), The Bridge (Broen, co-production with Sweden).<br />
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<b><br /></b>
<b>Biggest Danish Single of All Time:</b> 7 Years by Lukas Graham <br />
<br />
<b>Most Famous Danish Building:</b> The Opera House in Sydney (Jørn Utzon)<br />
<br />
<b>Danish Imperialism:</b> Lego, Maersk, Ecco, Vesta, Bang and Olufsen, Carlsberg, Tuborg, Tiger.<br />
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<b>Best Danish Word We Like to Shove Down Your Throat: </b> Hygge.<br />
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<b>Best Danish Word You Shouldn't Teach Your Children: </b>Listepik <br />
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<b>Daily Smokers:</b> 10% of the population. (All of them will be sitting on your lap when you go to an outdoor café)<br />
<br />
<b>Obesity Rate:</b> 22% of the population.<br />
<br />
<b>Best Danish Food:</b>
Moss, lichen, and soil mixed with bone marrow from an animal you wouldn't
want to eat. (All from Noma, the world's best restaurant. You
can now make reservations for January 2024)<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFYahEjGPVI/AAAAAAAAAnk/LuHHiRhrPZw/s1600-h/Danmark+003.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212382774186884434" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFYahEjGPVI/AAAAAAAAAnk/LuHHiRhrPZw/s400/Danmark+003.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" width="400" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">This picture is not from Noma. It actually has a view and you don't have to pay $100 for a glass of water.</span><br />
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<b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in Spain, Greece & Cyprus: </b>Blond girls with herpes.<br />
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<b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Far East:</b> Badminton.<br />
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<b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Middle East:</b> Cartoons.<br />
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<b>Denmark's Claim to Fame in the UK:</b> Bacon and Sofie Gråbøl's sweater.<br />
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<b>Most Important Danish Invention of All Time:</b> The atomic bomb (Niels Bohr)<br />
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<b>Denmark's Biggest Contribution to American Sports:</b> Morten Andersen, the all-time leading scorer in the NFL. (Kicker)<br />
<br />
<b>Denmark's Best PR Agent in America: </b>Bernie Sanders <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFYvfqt6-SI/AAAAAAAAAn0/a7BOT1G2hdU/s1600-h/Italien+%26+Syrien+2007+031.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212405839817275682" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFYvfqt6-SI/AAAAAAAAAn0/a7BOT1G2hdU/s400/Italien+%26+Syrien+2007+031.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
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<b>Best Tourist Attraction If You're Into Knights in Shining Armour:</b> Frederiksborg castle and Kronborg (Hamlet's castle) <br />
<br />
<b>Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eight Years Old or Behaving Like It:</b> Legoland.<br />
<br />
<b>Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eighty Years Old or Behaving Like It:</b> Tivoli.<br />
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<b>Most Overrated Tourist Attraction By Far:</b> The Little Mermaid.<br />
<br /><b>Time of Glory I:</b> When the Danish vikings conquered England in the 11th century.<br />
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<b>Time Of Glory II:</b> When Denmark won the European Championship in football (soccer) in 1992 and the whole country behaved like a frat party.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFYUYL4PSlI/AAAAAAAAAnc/XqfbVq5Njmk/s1600-h/Italien+%26+Syrien+2007+032.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212376024466016850" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFYUYL4PSlI/AAAAAAAAAnc/XqfbVq5Njmk/s400/Italien+%26+Syrien+2007+032.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
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<b>Cutest Cities in Denmark:</b>
Helsingør (Elsinore), Ærøskøbing, Faaborg, Ebeltoft, Ribe, Skagen,
Svaneke, Aarhus, Copenhagen and Christiania (if you still think that Che Guevara and bean
bag chairs are cool)<br />
<br />
<b>Best Months to Visit the Land of the Danes:</b> From late May to mid-September.<br />
<br />
<b>Best Month to Commit Suicide Because It's Dark, Dreary, and Everybody Wish They Were in Thailand:</b> January.<br />
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<b>Best Danish Traits:</b> Tolerance, sense of humor, informality.<br />
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<b>Worst Danish Traits: </b>Intolerance, pettiness, self-satisfied grumpiness with a hint of racism.<br />
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<b>What You'll Miss the Most If You're an American Visiting Denmark:</b> TV anchors with perfect teeth.<br />
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<b>What You'll Miss the Most If You're Italian:</b> Bread and Berlusconi.<br />
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<b>What You'll Miss the Most If You're Norwegian:</b> Norway<br />
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<b>Most Beautiful Area of Denmark:</b> The Silkeborg lake district in Jutland and the island of Bornholm.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFYtCqbcszI/AAAAAAAAAns/LTEk67-FAa8/s1600-h/Hald5.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212403142500332338" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XgcYWhPBWyE/SFYtCqbcszI/AAAAAAAAAns/LTEk67-FAa8/s400/Hald5.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
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<b>Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane:</b> Now, which part of Germany are you from again?<br />
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<b>Second Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane:</b> Sweden and Norway are my favorite Scandinavian countries.<br />
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Enjoy
your stay. And tourists, please forgive Copenhagen for looking like
Pompeii. We're building a Metro that we don't really need.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright, Peter H. Fogtdal, Danish Accent, 2008, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2016 </span><br />
<br />
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-6080818932337440752016-04-26T10:03:00.001-07:002016-04-26T10:03:52.982-07:00Earthquake Anniversary in Nepal - A Country Still Struggling a Year After the Disaster <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HuTxWGosb_w/Vx-LDZNvNXI/AAAAAAAAEEg/q-zSvBeDpZkWyJzaaBGO9GuNtZzo7twgQCLcB/s1600/Kathmandu%2B2%2B006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="323" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HuTxWGosb_w/Vx-LDZNvNXI/AAAAAAAAEEg/q-zSvBeDpZkWyJzaaBGO9GuNtZzo7twgQCLcB/s400/Kathmandu%2B2%2B006.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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In December 2012 I was in Kathmandu to give a talk at the Literary Jatra, and I fell in love with Nepal. the Nepalese, and the Tibetan community in Boudha. As most of you will remember, Nepal was hit by a huge earthquake a year ago where 9,000 died, so this is my small homage to the beautiful country in the Himalayas.<br />
<br />
Please join me in supporting organizations like Karuna-Shechen by donating money to the reconstruction of Nepal. 100% of the donations go to their projects. The operating costs are paid by a donor, which makes this Buddhist charity founded by Matthieu Ricard, one of the most credible around. Click <a href="http://karuna-shechen.org/how-to-help/">here</a> if you're able to help.<a href="http://karuna-shechen.org/how-to-help/"> </a><br />
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Copyright, Peter H. Fogtdal, November, December, 2012.<br />
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********************Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-62863418021269271442016-04-11T09:00:00.000-07:002017-07-07T18:19:58.492-07:00An English Translation of The First Chapter of The Egyptian Heart (Det egyptiske hjerte) <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5SjbecRy-18/VwaebNkq3OI/AAAAAAAAEB8/WFASmaKb9E0tVJ3wy4UaLzvRTj31KYPTA/s1600/2015%2BArnold%2BBusck%2Bposter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5SjbecRy-18/VwaebNkq3OI/AAAAAAAAEB8/WFASmaKb9E0tVJ3wy4UaLzvRTj31KYPTA/s400/2015%2BArnold%2BBusck%2Bposter.jpg" width="378" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">My thirteenth novel, Det egyptiske hjerte was published in Denmark in late 2015. Here is a tran<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">slation of the first chapter b<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">y Mark Kline that takes place in medieval Venice. (There's a rambling <span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">prol</span>ogue from contemporary Venice <span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">before this chapter</span>, but you have to wait for that and the rest of the book until it comes out in your language)</span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">If you<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">'re interested in knowing more about The Egyptian Heart, contact foreign rights manager from PeoplesPress, Louise Langhoff Koch <span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">(lolk@artpeople.dk<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">) </span></span>who is at </span></span></span></span></span></span>the London Book Fair here in April. S<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">even</span>teen publishers around the world are considering <span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">my <span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">strange and entertaining</span> reincarnation novel right</span> now: six from Germany, four from France, two from Sweden, and one from the Czech Republic, Netherlands, Russia, Portugal, and Brazil. <span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB"> You can read more about the novel on <span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">the o<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">ld</span>er</span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"> entries o<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">f my blog.</span> </span> </span></span></span><br />
<div id="stcpDiv" style="left: -1988px; position: absolute; top: -1999px;">
Louise Langhoff Koch at lolk@artpeople.dk<br />
<div id="stcpDiv" style="left: -1988px; position: absolute; top: -1999px;">
Louise Langhoff Koch at lolk@artpeople.dk<br />
<div id="stcpDiv" style="left: -1988px; position: absolute; top: -1999px;">
Louise Langhoff Koch at lolk@artpeople.dk</div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">Chapter
1 </span></span></span>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">Pietro</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB"><b>Pietro</b></span><span lang="en-GB">
Polani, the thirty-sixth Doge of Venice, greets the person he hates
most in the whole world.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
year is 1144; world history has</span>n’t <span lang="en-GB">reach</span>ed<span lang="en-GB">
the lagoon</span> yet<span lang="en-GB">. It’s preoccupied with the
Crusades and the Holy Land and paying no attention to Serenissima,
the Venetian Republic. </span>Actually, <span lang="en-GB">the Doge
</span>has <span lang="en-GB">invited world history to the lagoon
several times, but world history keeps giving him the cold shoulder.
World history has nothing but contempt for sand banks and merchant
fleets. It demands bloodbaths of epic proportions - it insists on
massacres of women and entire families. In short, world history is a
psychopath, and we’ll never understand it if we don't recognize
that. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__440_803707834"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__439_803707834"></a>
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-US">P</span><span lang="en-GB">ietro
Polani has been Doge for fourteen years. He has grown into the
position in such a way that he no longer knows where </span>the <span lang="en-GB">Doge
begins and Pietro ends. At the tender age of twenty-nine, he was
elected because of his reputation for honesty and intelligence. But
now the most powerful families of Venice are tired of him because of
his honesty and intelligence. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB"> The times haven't been kind to Pietro
Polani, who wanted to be a Prince of Peace but instead inherited war.
Wars are raging everywhere around the Adriatic Sea. When one fire is
put out, another flares up. Hungarians attack the Dalmatian coast;
Normans try to contain Venice; Padua and Fano are sassy children who
receive well-deserved spankings. The world is aflame as always, but
luckily it’s God's flame, so there's nothing we can do about that.
After all, who <span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">should</span> we complain to? The Devil?</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__6657_578157290"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__6656_578157290"></a>
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB"><b>The</b></span><span lang="en-GB">
Doge receives the Patriarch of Grado in the Great Hall of the Doge
Palace. The Patriarch is the Pope's representative in the lagoon. He
wields more power than a Cardinal and is number two in the Church
hierarchy. A herald bangs his spear on the stone floor and announces
the Patriarch in a high, piercing voice that ricochets off the walls,
tapestries, and trunks like stinging slaps to the face.</span></span></span></div>
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</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Pietro</span></span><span lang="en-GB">
Polani is surrounded by courteous servants and his loyal eunuch,
Sano, who was castrated at the age of twelve. The eunuch is a short
man with tawny red hair and a wrinkled face<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"> who</span> looks like a cross
between an elderly man and an infant. He carries several rolls of
parchment under his arm. His lips are shaped into a permanent sly
smile. The table in the Great Hall is set for a feast, the icy lagoon
air oozes in through the smoke hole, the flames in the fireplace
flicker. Polani has donned a long ermine robe and leather gloves to
keep warm. He's wearing his lemon-yellow Doge skullcap and ear flaps,
and a heavy chain of gold hangs from his neck.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The</span></span><span lang="en-GB">
thirty-sixth Doge of Venice is a thin man of medium height with
small, friendly gray eyes, a large nose, and lips outraged by his
fellow humans' pettiness. His mouth is small, his cheeks and
intuition sharp, his hair and beard curly </span>are <span lang="en-GB">every
bit as dark as the anxiety he bears.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The</span></span><span lang="en-GB">
Patriarch of Grado sits at a large, heavy oak table, a gift from the
Norman Emperor that had been shipped from Sicily to the lagoon in
1138. The two men are sons of merchants from the San Luca parish
close to the Rialto Bridge. They were childhood friends, though they
show no sign of that now. Their shared past can be sensed only as a
migraine of the soul, but the Doge intends to appeal to the best in
the Patriarch, should there indeed be any best remaining to appeal
to. In other words, the Doge will look his old friend in the eye
before deciding whether or not to crush him.</span></span></span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB"><b>The</b></span><span lang="en-GB">
Doge's Palace is not the present-day opulent structure on St. Mark's
Square, a palatial wedding cake featuring Byzantine embellishments.
Back then there was no glazed facade with broad arcade, marble
benches, and Gothic columns. Nor did the Lion of St. Mark's stand on
its pedestal, staring out at the horizon. And it still lacked wings –
they flew in from Persia or Egypt in or around the thirteenth
century. The Doge's Palace was nothing more than a large, clumsy
Middle Age fortress with stout walls, four round castle towers, and a
closed courtyard for knights and their horses.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB"> Only
a small segment of the Middle Age foundation survives today. It rose
out of the mud during excavations in the 1700s. Suddenly the gates
holding back the repressions of the twelfth century opened. Agonies
and memories stood in line to escape; they seeped up from the
underground as murderous threats and unanswered prayers, as frail
voices, each with a story that segued into a cloud and sailed over
the lagoon. Stories never disappear. They bury themselves in the
bodies of cities and shape the geography. Stories engrave themselves
into the minds of humans and alter their perception of reality … or
at least make them aware that realities come and go, for Heaven
knows, there are so many versions.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">Pietro
Polani's waiter pours wine into the clay-colored mugs.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-GB">The
large hall is dark, the air heavy with smoke and mildew. Inch-thick
sheep rugs cover the cool stone floor, but no matter how the Doge's
men try to keep warm, the freezing wind off the lagoon shows who's
boss. One can’t tyrannize nature; it always gets the last word, no
matter the century.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
Doge toasts with the Patriarch.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
Patriarch toasts with the Doge.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">Sano
the eunuch closely observes both men. He has been looking forward to
this meeting, because he's convinced that blood will flow.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
Patriarch of Grado sits erect in his burgundy-colored robe and high
hat. He was born Enrico Dandolo, an uncle to the "real"
Enrico Dandolo, who sixty years later will be honored as having made
Venice a major power. Why? Because he burned to the ground the
greatest city of the Middle Ages, Constantinople, along with its
100,000 citizens. I repeat: the road to immortality is </span><span lang="en-GB"><i>always</i></span><span lang="en-GB">
paved with greed. Think of idiots like Alexander the Great, Peter the
Great, and Napoleon. What do they all have in common? They could
never get enough. That's why they were great.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
Doge and the Patriarch study each other over the knots of the oak
table.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
spiders on the wall creep closer together.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">Each
of these powerful men has devised a strategy for this meeting. The
Patriarch has thought through everything down to the tiniest detail,
has considered his arguments and weighed them on Biblical scales,
whereas the Doge's strategy is the exact opposite – he doesn't have
one. The right words will appear when he needs them. Pietro Polani is
nothing more than a ventriloquist who seeks his inspiration from St.
Mark and trusts that inspiration will flow out of his mouth at the
proper time, and should that against all expectations not happen, he
will bequeath his fiasco to God –</span><span lang="en-GB"><i>
that's</i></span><span lang="en-GB"> his strategy.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"I
have requested Your Excellency's presence to have a talk,
man-to-man," the Doge says. The Patriarch nods, but he's already
on his guard. His eyes are glued on Pietro, his one eyebrow raised as
a sign of an unhealthy <span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">skepticism</span>, his fingers readying themselves
for drum solos on the table, should they gather the courage.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
Doge stands up enthusiastically. "Do you remember when we went
fishing in Rio San Luca and found a body drifting down the stream?"</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
Patriarch of Grado stares in surprise at the Doge. "No."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"It
was the first dead man we'd ever seen."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"Aha."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"You
don't remember?"</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"No,
unfortunately not," the Patriarch says. He reaches for the
documents he has laid on the table; if there hadn't been any
documents to reach for, he would have reached out for his wine mug,
and if there hadn't been a wine mug, he would have groaned a bit
louder than he permits himself to now.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"You're
the one who emptied his pockets and found the three silver coins."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
Patriarch remains silent.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"The
dead man worked for your father, didn't he?"</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"I
wouldn't know." The irritated glint in the Patriarch's eye seems
to have hardened.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"Three
silver coins was a lot back then. Do you remember what we spent them
on?"</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
Patriarch shakes his head.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"A
knife, Enrico. A very dull knife we bought at the market in San
Salvador. We took turns using it, and once we fought over it."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
Patriarch looks down at his boots; where else could he look, with the
Doge insisting on blabbering like a stupid hag</span>. <span lang="en-GB">The
mood in the Great Hall is dull and listless, more so than at any time
during the occupancies of the past twenty Doges. In fact, there is no
mood; it's fled to the lagoon, for a mood can only take so much.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
eyes of the Doge and the Patriarch meet for a few short seconds, but
the Patriarch doesn't like eye contact. He wishes only a dialogue
with our Lord, for our Lord is the only peer of the Patriarch, and
even that is debatable.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"With
your permission, Principe." Enrico studies his pudgy hands.
"Surely you haven't invited me here to talk about old times?"
</span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__14680_1732044049"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__14681_1732044049"></a>
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"Indeed,
I have." Polani beams.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">A
nervous tic flashes over The Patriarch's face. Why is it that the
Doge makes him feel so insecure? Enrico is clearly more gifted and
superior to Pietro in every way, yet he feels as if he's tagging
along behind when he is with his childhood friend. Is it because of
the respect associated with the five-hundred-year Doge tradition? No,
that can't be it, the Church has existed longer than Serenissima, and
besides, Jesus Christ is its King.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"So
you don't believe that our personal relationship has any influence on
our present-day disagreements?" the Doge asks.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"I
have no disagreement with you, Principe," The Patriarch says.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__5442_791241306"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__UnoMark__5441_791241306"></a>
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"For
the love of God, Enrico." The Doge pounds his fist on the table.
"Can't you get it through your thick skull that I'm speaking to
you as a fellow human being? I'm trying my best to strip away the
formality of our positions, so we stand naked before each other –
don't look so shocked, Enrico, I'm speaking metaphorically here. Come
on now. We were together in The Holy Land in the time of the old
Doge, you even saved my life. Everything we went through together,</span>
doesn’t that mean anything at all to you?”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"There’</span><span lang="en-US">s
</span><span lang="en-GB">no reason to patronize me," the
Patriarch snaps.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"There's
</span><span lang="en-GB"><i>every</i></span><span lang="en-GB">
reason to patronize you, Enrico, otherwise we'll never untangle this
knot we're in. And may I remind you that I'm responsible for the
influence you now have as Patriarch."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"Let's
get down to business," Enrico snarls<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">. How</span></span><span lang="en-GB"> can one take this fool in the
Doge's Palace seriously, a man enthusiastic one moment and phlegmatic
the next, more known for his strange behavior than his capabilities?
Pietro Polani is</span><span lang="en-GB"><i> not</i></span><span lang="en-GB">
a good Doge. For the fourteen years he has sat on the throne, he has
been an unworthy representative for Serenissima. He is popular among
the citizenry, yes, because he has seduced the hearts of the poor,
but fortunately The Great Council clipped his foreign-policy wings
before he could do too much damage.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"With
all due respect, Principe, what I mean is, it would be better to –"</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"I'm
not sure you know what's 'better', Enrico, for you or for God. But
let's get down to business, as you so un-poetically call it. For
almost a year now you've attempted to thwart the appointments I've
made, the latest of which is the abbess of San Zaccaria. You swept my
candidate aside and installed your own."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"I
wouldn't use the word 'thwart'."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"Well</span><span lang="en-GB"><i>
I</i></span><span lang="en-GB"> would." Again the Doge slams his
fist down on the table. "Appointments to offices in Serenissima
is a responsibility of</span><span lang="en-GB"><i> my</i></span><span lang="en-GB">
office, which is why I take it as a personal affront when you
overrule my decision."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"I
act only with regards to the reforms of Pope Gregor, which His
Holiness in Rome wishes to be implemented –"</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"And
in that way you oppose</span><span lang="en-GB"><i> me</i></span><span lang="en-GB">."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"This
is not a personal attack on you, Principe."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"Everything
in this world is personal, Enrico," the Doge yells, "and
I’ve had enough. Last year you intervened by overruling a case
under the authority of the Bishop of Castello, but my appointment of
the new abbess in the San Zaccaria parish will</span><span lang="en-GB"><i>
not</i></span><span lang="en-GB"> be disallowed, Enrico, is that
understood?"</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"With
all due respect, the Church overrides the secular world."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"So
now you’re saying that you</span><span lang="en-GB"><i> also</i></span><span lang="en-GB">
have no respect for the constitution of Serenissima?" </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"Of
course I do. I just have greater respect for God." </span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"Then
let's get everything out in this Light you claim to be serving."
The Doge smiles wanly. "Let's get it all out – your damn
pettiness, your lust for power, your enormous inferiority complexes,
Enrico. Let's look at how your monks break into cloisters and rape
our sisters in the name of God. How they acquire Bishop positions,
not because they're pious but because they're granted property with
their purchase. Our beloved Church is becoming more and more corrupt.
What do you say to that, my fat friend?"</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"Do
not call me your fat friend, Pietro."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"But
you’re fat, and you </span><span lang="en-GB"><i>are</i></span><span lang="en-GB">
my friend," the Doge says triumphantly, "so come down off
your high Bible and talk to me man-to-man before your intrigues drive
me insane. This doesn't have to be so nasty, Enrico. I don't enjoy
being mean, but you're forcing me to be."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
Patriarch stands up and furiously gathers his documents. When he
finally speaks, his voice is shaking. "Principe, you should know
that a messenger was sent several days ago to His Holiness, to
expedite a solution to our problem –"</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">"To
which of the popes, my dear Enrico, Peter or Judas? Until recently
there were two of them."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
Patriarch's voice trembles. "New winds are blowing across our
peninsula, winds that will have great influence on our beloved
Republic, but I see no reason to speak more of this. It's out of my
hands. Is there anything else, Serenissimo Principe? More ridiculous
accusations plucked out of thin air? Or more pointless childhood
memories you wish to bring up?"</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">Pietro
Polani rises. "No, nothing more, Enrico. But I want you to
remember one thing: we in Serenissima have never bowed down to Sancta
Sedes. We leave that to Pisa, Genoa, and the other cowardly states.
We respect His Holiness, but we’re not his lapdog. Tell that to
your damned messenger."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">The
Patriarch bows ironically, but as he and his shocked entourage are
about to depart from the Great Hall, the Doge steps forward and
embraces him. To all appearances it's a loving embrace – perhaps an
apology for the rough words spoken in the heat of battle? Or for the
childish things spoken by the Doge when he was offended? But no, it’s
in fact a show of power. More than ever, the Doge has need of
demonstrating who may be on a first-name basis with him and who may
not, who may embrace the heads of the Church as if they were
oversized stuffed animals and who may not. All this is signified by
the embrace the Patriarch is forced to endure, from which he attempts
to extract himself without pushing the spindly, moody Doge away –
Enrico can’t afford to do that. He mustn't even use his talent for
quick comebacks to put the Doge in his place. All he can do is show
his disgust by peering up at the ceiling or down at the Emperor's oak
table or at Sano, the eunuch, who is trying not to laugh at the
bizarre sight in front of him – the tall, angry Patriarch and the
strange Doge in a long, brotherly embrace. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB"> At last Pietro loosens his
grip and pounds Enrico hard on the back, as if he's an old mutt with
a bone stuck in his throat. Finally the Patriarch can leave the Great
Hall, while the Doge is thinking, what a nice day. Or is it a nice
day? For who can weigh the consequences of our small Pyrrhic
victories? Who can weigh anything while trying to understand
something as delicate as a human life? The consequences of what we do
and don’t do follow us for centuries. Nothing disappears in this
world; all embraces, quarrels, and childish behavior come back to
haunt us when we least expect it. The Doge knows this, and therefore
he should have acted in a dignified manner, but he couldn't, because
he was too wounded.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">We
now take leave of the deeply shaken Patriarch of Grado, who steps off
the quay and into his gondola displaying the silver and red colors of
the Dandolo family. He is followed by his scrivener, a Father, and
three demons sitting on his shoulders, screaming for revenge – how
dare the Doge speak to the Church's most important man in the lagoon
as if he were a simple shepherd of souls! The demons will make
certain that the Patriarch is avenged, but more than five years will
pass before it happens.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span lang="en-GB">Enrico
sails down the Rio Barrio and through the labyrinthine canals toward
the clan's courtyard in San Luca parish, while the banner of the
Dandolos snaps in the icy wind. When he arrives at the market at the
Rialto <span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">b</span>ridge, he is shaking from the cold and from an enormous
rage he’s almost unable to control.</span></span></span></div>
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Translation by Mark Kline. Foreign rights, Louise Langhoff Koch from PeoplesPress, lolk@artpeople.
Photo from Arnold Busck book store, Esben Von Tangen-Lund-Christensen. <br />
<div id="stcpDiv" style="left: -1988px; position: absolute; top: -1999px;">
Louise Langhoff Koch at lolk@artpeople.dk</div>
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****</div>
Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-45084257957208408322016-03-05T07:22:00.000-08:002016-03-07T08:28:11.812-08:00When Ancient Egypt Creeps Under Your Skin and Comes Out As A Novel <br />
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1.<br />
I swear, my novel made me do it.<br />
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I didn't mean to go to Egypt with a stop over in Venice. I don't like to travel. I prefer to sit by my computer and stare into the screen like a Danish zombie, but sometimes a writer has to suffer for his art. Sometimes your novel forces you to do the most atrocious things, like going to Luxor on a whim because Osiris begs you. And hey, part of your Danish novel takes place in Egypt in the 18th century, anyway, so it's not as if you don't have an excuse.<br />
<br />
Well, okay. I'm a little slow reporting on this, because it all happened a year ago. I came back from Egypt in March, 2015, and Det egyptiske hjerte (The Egyptian Heart) was published a few months ago in Denmark to stellar reviews ... but as all you spiritual airheads know, time is an illusion. Time has laws we're not wise to - and that's the exact feeling you get when you walk around the temples of Upper Egypt, where ancient Pharaohs breathe down your neck and centuries of desert find a way into every part of your body and
remain there for longer than you want.<br />
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2.<br />
But oh, my God, Egypt is worth all kinds of suffering, the simple reason being that most of the ancient wisdom accessible to us today derives from this land - not from the time of the Dynasties as historians like to call them, but from the older mystery
schools where souls were initiated and taught about our place in the universe - about our relationship to Sirius, Orion, and the understanding of time.<br />
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An example: The Pyramids and the Sphinx in Giza are much older than we think. They're not from 2,500 BC or 3, 500 BC but probably from 10,000 BC. However, that might be wrong, too, so what if there's another explanation, one that's more logical and provocative? Perhaps they were never built. Maybe the Pyramids have always been there as a silent witness to our dreams and aspirations? Why is it that we humans want everything to have a beginning and an end? What if the most sacred is eternal in a way our minds can't comprehend?<br />
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For instance, the Buddhists argue that the world never was created. It has always been here and will always be here, and so will we in one form or another, traveling through the universe, slowly shaking off our egos and desires like they were dandruff. We're all on a long journey through time, suddenly finding ourselves in bodies in today's Copenhagen, in Pietro Polani's medieval Venice, or being inspired by an 18th century explorer, Frederik Norden, while we learn more about ourselves and our Source on the way.<br />
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Experts or not, we know very little about the universe or Prehistoric Egypt for that matter. Our "facts" mostly come from myth and intuition, the odd vision under a starry sky, a sudden goose bump at the banks of the Nile. So when I walked around the temples at Karnak, Luxor, Hatshepsut, Ramses III and Medinet Habu, I discovered I wasn't the slightest interested in Kingdoms, Dynasties, and Pharaohs - I just wanted to meditate and sense these amazing places, so I could go back to a time the eternal part of me knows so well. <br />
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On the surface, Det egyptiske hjerte (The Egyptian Heart) isn't a novel about Ancient Egypt. Most of it takes place in before-mentioned Venice, Copenhagen, and on the banks of the Nile in 1736-37, but my book is deeply inspired by Egyptian mysticism. All mystics are inspired by this ancient land, so I didn't go to Luxor just as a writer who wanted to finish his book. I went there as a human who hoped to remember what he forgot.<br />
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But enough of this for now. I'm going to shut up and let my pictures speak. <br />
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You can get Det egyptiske hjerte in all Danish book stores or online at <a href="https://www.saxo.com/dk/soeg/boeger?query=Det+egyptiske+hjerte">https://www.saxo.com/dk/soeg/boeger?query=Det+egyptiske+hjerte</a>, both as regular book, e-book, and audio book.<br />
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Foreign rights, Louise Langhoff Koch, lolk@artpeople.dk<br />
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*****Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-62035917960031786192015-11-05T22:06:00.000-08:002015-11-05T22:06:01.398-08:00Presenting My Novel 'The Egyptian Heart' - Magical Realism for the Spiritually Inclined (And It Doesn't Hurt If You Have a Sense of Humor)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">1.</span><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After five years of hard work, my novel </span><i><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Det egyptiske hjerte (The Egyptian Heart)</span></i><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i> </i>finally<i> </i>came out in Denmark in late October. Man, it's been a long journey. Since 2009 I've been writing on two novels at the same time going back between Danish and English, tearing the hair out of my skull every morning. Also, I went on research trips to Luxor, Egypt and my favorite city in the world, Venezia, Venice, Venedig (take your pick). I even got diarrhea but there's no limit to what a writer will do for his reader.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Det egyptiske hjerte</i> is written in this strange tongue called Danish. It's a sweeping, often humorous</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">and love-affirming novel </span></span>about reincarnation,
eternal love and the stories we tell to make sense of our
existence. It's an accessible and lively book for those who love history,
spirituality, and thought-provoking storytelling about the inner connectedness
of our relationships.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There are three
storylines in the novel that intertwine: One in 12<sup>th</sup> century Italy
about the Venetian Doge, Pietro Polano (1130-1148) and one in contemporary Copenhagen with
Zia, a historian who is writing a thesis about an Egyptian explorer, Frederik
Norden. Zia and Pietro Polani are both emotional, impulsive, and zany characters
who have had experiences with sexual abuse, mysticism, and fire. None of them is
comfortable with dogmatic systems but have a strange fascination with Egypt
and the Pyramids. Is Zia an incarnation of Pietro?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And is Frederik Norden Zia's guardian angel
on her voyage into her past and herself?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reader
will have fun following the clues.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A lot of foreign publishers showed interest in The Egyptian Heart at the Frankfurt book fair so hopefully it'll be sold to a lot of countries within the next few months. If you're a publisher you can get a two-chapter translation in English by Mark Kline by mailing People's Press Foreign Rights Manager, Louise Langhoff Koch at lolk@artpeople.dk </span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oeIqeXJJriI/VjsSnchV0gI/AAAAAAAAD6U/sn_KkV5lj-c/s1600/Pol%2Breview%2BEgyptiske%2Bhjerte.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oeIqeXJJriI/VjsSnchV0gI/AAAAAAAAD6U/sn_KkV5lj-c/s320/Pol%2Breview%2BEgyptiske%2Bhjerte.PNG" width="240" /></a></div>
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3.<br />
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A few days ago I got a review to die for in D<span class="text_exposed_show">enmark's
most important paper, Politiken. "I'm totally hooked," senior editor Bjørn Bredal writes. "The
Egyptian Heart is one of the most charming, humorous, and clever books
I've read in a long time. Peter H. Fogtdal isn't just
knowledgeable, he's witty, has bite, and leaves the Dan Browns of the
world in the dust." (I'd rather leave Jonathan Franzen in the dust but okay, I can live with that compliment) </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Here is a great quote
in Danish about the quality of my prose: "Man sejler igennem det hele, lystigt vuggende i Fogtdals
sproglige gondol, som ikke giver en eneste mislyd i lagunen. Han kan
skrive, kan han, og han har noget på hjerte om det store, det små og det
onde i historien – verdens og romanens." ("You cruise through the novel, gently bopping in Fogtdal's linguistic gondola ... He can write, can he and he has something important to say about the big and small issues and cruelty through the ages.")</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For some reason the
review isn't online at<a href="http://politiken.dk/kultur/boger/"> http://politiken.dk/kultur/boger</a>/ yet but should be soon. Not that I'm
complaining about much right now ...</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Signing books at Politiken boghandel November 4. I'll be at the Copenhagen Book Fair, BogForum Sunday November 8 at 1.30 PM and at Tranquebar boghandel, Borgergade 14 in Copenhagen, November 26 at 7 PM. Cover, 50 DKK.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>++++++++ </i></span><br />
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</span>Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-85092191070022598842015-04-23T16:23:00.001-07:002022-12-22T08:05:07.700-08:00The Three Days With Sam Shepard That Changed My Writing Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yOSwxccIwRY/VTkQ6RRDLhI/AAAAAAAADqk/g6BiMmnlcxw/s1600/Sam%2BShepherd%2Bas%2Byoung.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yOSwxccIwRY/VTkQ6RRDLhI/AAAAAAAADqk/g6BiMmnlcxw/s1600/Sam%2BShepherd%2Bas%2Byoung.jpg" width="285" /></a><br />
<br />
1.<br />
It happened on a hot day in the beginning of the Eighties.<br />
<br />
Everybody was sitting at a long table waiting for the Master. And it wasn't just young students like me. It was professional actors and writers from Hollywood who were going to work on His play at the Padua Hills Playwriting Workshop outside L.A.<br />
<br />
Sam Shepard entered. He was tall and shy and threw himself into a chair. He wasn't much known as an actor back then but as a poet and playwright who'd just won the Pulitzer Prize for <span style="font-style: italic;">Buried Child</span>. Everybody was ready to write down His words of wisdom, so we all could become instant artists and win the Pulitzer ourselves one day.<br />
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Sam Shepard looked us over and said: "So what do you want to talk about?" We all glanced at each other. What a strange thing for the Master to say. Wasn't He going to give us the recipe for greatness, the Keys to the Kingdom, the magic wand that could turn a tired cliche into a pot of gold?<br />
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A few started to ask Him about <span style="font-style: italic;">Buried Child</span> and other of His plays, but the Master shook His head, "I'm here to talk about <span style="font-style: italic;">your</span> writing, not mine." Then He sent us out into the hills with an assignment. "Write what you feel in your body."<br />
<br />
We looked disappointed at each other and walked into the hills, hoping not to come across one of the coyotes or rattlesnakes that roamed in the area. After an hour we came back, sat at the table, and read loud what we'd written. Sam Shepard was honest and soft-spoken. There wasn't any "what a great sense of place" bullshit here. There was no "Gosh, I loved it, but ..." Only a few crisp words from the Master to the dramatist students who now had been forced into poetry by the rugged hills.<br />
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We did this three or four days in a row. At every session, the Master would praise two or three pieces, never more. To my huge surprise, I got encouraging feedback twice and was very proud of that. But more was to come.<br />
<br />
The fourth and final day Shepard was around I read my piece, Sam Shepard did something He hadn't done to anyone during His stay. He stared me down for a few seconds without saying a word. "Oh my God, what have I done?" I thought. Was America's greatest poet-playwright going to punch me in the mouth? There was a long pause, then He said, "You have an incredible sense of imagery. You should really cherish that." Pause. "Yeah, you should really cherish that."<br />
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There wasn't a sound in the room, and I almost died of happiness on the spot. After all, I was just a foreign student and the only one out of twenty writing in my second language. And everybody had hated my funny stuff before Sam Shepard had taken over the workshop.<br />
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The next two nights I couldn't sleep. I felt as if I was high on mushrooms. I wrote a short play that later was produced at my school, Cal State Fullerton - and when I moved back to Denmark, I wrote an altered version that I sold to DR, our national Danish TV station, and was broadcast in 1986. In a certain sense, my professional career started when those words came out of Sam Shepard's mouth. They became my antidote when I later got disappointing reviews for my first novels in Denmark; they protected me against self-doubt and inferiority complexes when people accused me of being a lightweight. It hurt me but I knew it wasn't true. Sam Shepard had seen me for what I was. And what I didn't know at that time was that my best work was going to be my serious novels, <i>Flødeskumsfronten</i> (<i>Le Front Chantilly</i>, <i>O Paraiso de Hitler)</i> and <i>Zarens dværg</i> (<i>The Tsar's Dwarf</i>, <i>La Naine du Tsar, </i><i><span id="freeTextContainer17731141644863628156">A Anä Do Czar</span></i>) that reflected some inner truths, if not outer about myself. His words were a gift, and I won't forget them as long as I live.<br />
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2.<br />
So why am I writing this on my fluffy blog - to brag? Well, that, too, of course, but mostly because I learned how important it is to encourage others, especially when you really mean it.<br />
<br />
At The Padua Hills playwriting workshop, Sam Shepard wanted people to write about what they'd experienced themselves. He didn't want any bullshit no matter how poetic it sounded. Once he actually scolded a black girl for writing about the slaves coming over from Africa. He did it in a very polite way but his point was, you've never been a slave, so how can you write that? <br />
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I was reminded of this workshop when I saw Sam Shepard in <span style="font-style: italic;">Bloodline</span> on Netflix as the old patriarch of a troubled family. I got goosebumps all over because my three days with him changed my writing life and also inspired me during the years I taught Advanced Fiction Writing at Portland State University. <br />
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Be honest in your writing. If you're funny, be funny. If you're poetic, be poetic. Write what you are; not what you think you should be! Or simply, write what's going on in your body, and be authentic. Let it come from within!<br />
<br />
And remember to encourage beginning writers on your way when you see something in them that they might not be aware of themselves ...<br />
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*******Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725967981218303470.post-89920788891428229242014-08-07T13:23:00.000-07:002014-08-09T08:09:20.149-07:00Floating - A Healthy Trip Into Your Mother's Womb and Your Own Twisted Mind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jdzG0q0cEd8/U-PQRZMavKI/AAAAAAAADcE/82OvP_5O8mA/s1600/Float+in+Progress.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jdzG0q0cEd8/U-PQRZMavKI/AAAAAAAADcE/82OvP_5O8mA/s1600/Float+in+Progress.JPG" height="266" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="userContent">Floating is the new craze. Or if it isn't, it should be. It's the closest you get to tripping in a salty environment.</span><br />
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<span class="userContent">So you go to this place called Float On on SE Hawthorne in Portland, Oregon that looks like a gay sauna club from 1977. They have six float tanks, sell legal drugs over the counter, and if you don't watch your back they'll get you juiced up on herbal tea. Then you're put in your own saltwater
tank that's the same temperature as your body. It's totally dark inside, no
sounds reach you except for the beating of your heart (if y<span class="text_exposed_show">ou have one). After a few minutes you feel you're back in the womb of your mother or being embraced by stress-free archangels. <br /> <br />
I've floated six times, and it's a great meditation unless you
suffer from claustrophobia or a fear of imaginary sharks. The first time I got so bored I tried to drown myself though, but the salt
keeps you afloat no matter what - and slowly you melt into the
darkness like a humid little demon. Every muscle relaxes, and after a
while your neck learns that the water isn't dangerous; it's your friend,
your lover, your muse.<br /> <br /> Some people get in touch with unknown
anxieties when they float. Others have lucid dreams, or just empty their
bladders into The Great Unknown. I've had two small flashes from past lives, and at one point I thought I'd invented the toaster, but
when I came out somebody told me I was sixty years too late. I also DID
empty my bladder, hoping it was a rite of passage because I don't want
to be a Danish pig. But man, the water is SO relaxing, and the float
hipsters clean it afterward with their state-of-the-art filtering system.<br /> <br /> That's right, you get your own
water to soil, including visions, longings, and ideas for your next novel or snack. Floating is not a trip down memory lane but a journey into </span></span><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">altered states</span></span> you had no
idea existed - a scenic drive on the freeway of your subconscious. </span></span><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".27.1:3:1:$comment10203793895502815_10203794176149831:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".27.1:3:1:$comment10203793895502815_10203794176149831:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".27.1:3:1:$comment10203793895502815_10203794176149831:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">Or at the very least, you get saltwater in your eyes, which can be a religious experience, too.</span></span></span> </span></span><br />
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<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">So friends, followers, health nuts, I
can wholeheartedly recommend an anti stress floating to anybody who can stand their own company for an
hour and a half. Most people can't, of course. That's why they get
iPhones, but that's another story altogether.<br /> <br /> (Check out <a href="http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.floathq.com%2F&h=oAQHOzAuZ&enc=AZPzCccNRNP9ZJXb-TIHaIiXJdEnpK7i3615LYDgx9pnoFXfRPa7gYqCgWibV6g2wNgGXhaIecfV16zR4B2VG3mPFR6lYSe9O6GABmRyopR3YcqCRK1IRgnb7zfSS4tEa1i22csDqedPndBqDla126nD&s=1" rel="nofollow nofollow" target="_blank">www.floathq.com</a> here in Portland. However, they have float tanks several other places in the world)</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AtDf0rteNEs/U-PP33Q4w3I/AAAAAAAADb8/R9d8PSZNYv0/s1600/Float+darkness.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AtDf0rteNEs/U-PP33Q4w3I/AAAAAAAADb8/R9d8PSZNYv0/s1600/Float+darkness.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent">This is a picture of the float I did this
morning (it's me in the middle). Float On in Portland offers three kinds of rooms, two ocean floats, two oasis tanks, and two float pools. I like them all and they seem to like me.</span></span></span></i><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LvPXqAp3CVM/U-PSvyA6lCI/AAAAAAAADcM/CaLZGeI4NI4/s1600/Float+hall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LvPXqAp3CVM/U-PSvyA6lCI/AAAAAAAADcM/CaLZGeI4NI4/s1600/Float+hall.JPG" height="320" width="308" /></a></div>
Danish Accenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06270643202224671587noreply@blogger.com0