I was sitting on the plane back to Stockholm from Billund, Denmark yesterday. A cup of tea with milk and sugar from the smiling stewardess, Emily, had been served. I had unwrapped a “klejne” (one of the Danish Christmas treats I return to) and had taken out a red napkin. One of several, that had been lying in my pocket since Friday where I had collected them at a Christmas market in Århus’ “Den Gamle By”. I’d bought a cup of hot cocoa with whipped cream at the time, but hadn’t needed the napkins.
There is a time and a place for everything.
But, back to the plane. I unfolded the newspaper I’d taken from the metal cage in the gate area and recall now that I had first taken a Danish newspaper, but then following a sublte feeling, had decided to pick up Svenska Dagbladet instead.
Opening the newpaper at random, the first thing I saw was the headline: Författaren kan hjälpa verkligheten att få syn på sig själv. (The writer can help reality to look at itself. Loosely translated).
Indeed. Is it not in books, fiction or other, that we look for ourselves? For the treasures hidden somewhere between the lines? The answers to who we are? To what the world and reality is and is about?
This, I think, is the delicate task entrusted to every writer. To see. Everything. Every movement, every feeling, every shadow and every glimmer of light. And, like the sculptor that sculpts the being already inhabiting the marble, with the pen make visible what was once unseen.