Jens Bjørneboe… A memory of a teacher and a writer

I want to talk bout my favorite writer of all time.

He would have been one year younger than my grandfather today who’s still alive. Though the latters existence seems more and more like a nudle. In 1919, my grandfather was born. In 1920, my literary father was born.

In Norwegian standards, his stands and writings are unpresedented. Some of his novels have similarities with older writers. But Jens put the old stories on to a new level of philosophy and the consoiuns of the human soul.

Today, he and his message seem to be long forgotten.

Like many other great artists of the time, he struggled with åpersonal demons. Self destructive behavior and an uncompromising quest for integrity, truth and empathy for people less fortunate than him.

He grew up in a wealthy family in a small town suth in Norway called Christiansand. Indeed, he was a little Lord Fauntleroy. And he’s love for pushing the limits did not stop after being thrown in  the drunk tank a few times in his youth.

He wrote his life! He learned languages and fled a country in puritan dismay. He needed his continental drug!

Every book he’s ever writtne has been stained by his dissatisfaction with the injustice and the lies that runs the wrld today. Lies and deceptions and pettiness that drives wedges between people who should love and care for each other!

Political incorrect, an anarkist and a eurocentric that would gladely hand over all of Europes and American leaders to a bunch of savage cannibals in the middle of Congo just for the hell of it.

As I see it, one written truth from him or me for that matter is worth a ton of small lies in the quest for truth and justice. A lie in itself is not the worst thing. One lie to please the ones that we ove. We lie to the ones we love in order to help them in any way we can. A lie does not mean that we are giving up our quest for integrity.

That doesn’t matter as long as you bottom line is the unpresedented truth.

Jens Bjørneboe is my literary father in every perspective. If he would be here with me now, we’d drink together, sharing a joint, and laugh at the whole thing together… After he’d make me break down, rest assured that there is always another way.

He’d be proud of me seing that I’m following nis advice to all young Norwegian writers: Emigrate!

Well, I’ve done that now! For the umteenth time I’m out on a journey with a plan. But I know that plans and dreams not always becmes fullfilled. That’s when the talent for wrting a line of poetry comes in handy. Personally, I wouldn’t mind some Snow White in the process to keep me speeded up in the right mode.

Jens Bjørneboe never believed in drug testing writers. He’d flunk that test himslef with flying colors…

I followed the old bastards advice: I emigrated! Living in then iseland of writers, drinkers and curses of an Irish woman,  he constantly reminds me f what I have started on doing; A long road t either success or t complete self destruction.

My liver does not feel very well these days. And my nights seem like a shrt visit in hell of flashbacks that denies my my rightful sleep and peace. My brain feels like its being shat on by both gods and demons at the same time and in stereo. It’s a wonder. And the wonder is the old strength that Jens left on earth just for me before the old bastard chose to hang himself by his own tongue…

He owes me a personal explanation! Having to quit drinking is no excuse! He could have grown his own weed in the back yard and gotten as hight as a kite and stoned like the rockies and not miss the liquid love more than a few seconds at the time! The old bastard owes me his supprot in my quest for truth, justice and the stoners kind of way!

I’m in Ireland these days. I’m in C.S. Lewis country now. Soon I will go to W.B. Yeats country and to Belfast and claim what is mine.

In the meatime, my beloved is fucking someone whom I would propably hate more than enema and the subsitute teacher that never left.

In the meantime, Jens Bjørneboes corps is peacefully decaying in some unblessed soil to soon to rise up again and fuck with both old and young….

And I must refrain myself from going complete insane in the membrain… With or without the halo…

Strider

September 2009, Dundalk, Ireland

One response to “Jens Bjørneboe… A memory of a teacher and a writer

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