Naive Super · Read more · Naive Super. Read more · Naive. Super · Read more · The Naive and Sentimental Lover Super Etendard (Super Profile). gaulecvebota.tk - Download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online. klop. Troubled by an inability to find any meaning in his life, the year-old narrator of Naive. Super quits university in an attempt to discover a.
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Review eBook Naiv. Super.: Volume 1 (Nelsbok) By Erlend Loe [PDF EBOOK EPUB KINDLE]. (c) - page 1 of 7 - Get Instant Access to PDF File: 9d naiv super pdf - wordpress - boken handlar om vuxnas önskan attivper. naiv super pdf online er en roman av erlend loe fra det er hans. ww1cvb - naiv. super. summary naiv. super erlend loe kiepenheuer & witsch mai pdf - wordpress - naiv super pdf download free addie said: i tried to send.
Thanks for telling us about the problem. Super You might as well take it easy. I tried to send Erlend Loe himself a letter once. Super because this is a novel filled with nice people. Our times are not the same.
To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. When his brother returns from his supee, he realizes the protagonist is having a gentle nervous breakdown combined with a mild existential crisis, and cares for the protagonist, including taking him on a trip to New York.
Dialogue is just discarded for the most part. Ni malo naivna super knjiga: There is a life and a death. Loe now lives and works in Oslo where in he co-founded Screenwriters Oslo — an office community for screenwriters.
Ultimately, what is the point? I am afraid etlend list will be a short one. Ovo mi je druga Luova knjiga. The worrying feeling that barely anything is happening in your life. I must have been over-eager. From there he made a swift kill. He croqueted me to the peg and the game was over. We stood there arguing for a while. I accused him of cheating and we studied the rule book and argued some more. I said a few things that were really off the mark. In the end my brother asked me if something was wrong.
Whats the matter with you? I was going to say nothing, but then I felt everything flowing over inside. It was overwhelming and upsetting. I have never felt anything like it, and I was unable to speak. Instead, I sat down on the grass and shook my head. My brother came and sat down next to me. He put his hand on my shoulder. We had never sat like that before.
I started to cry. I hadnt cried for years. It must have come as a surprise to my brother. He apologised for having been so brutal during the game. Everything seemed meaningless to me. All of a sudden. My own life, the lives of others, of animals and plants, the whole world. It no longer fitted together. I told my brother. He would never have been able to understand it. He got up and said come on, shit happens, itll be fine.
He tried to get me on my feet, boxing me brotherly in the stomach and shouting a little. My brother used to play hockey. He knows about shouting. I told him to take it easy. I said this was serious. My brother sat down and took it easy.
We were talking. I was completely incoherent. Neither of us could understand much of what I was saying. But my brother took me seriously. Ill give him that. I could see he was getting worried. He hadnt seen me like this before. He said there are probably thousands of people who hit the wall every day. Most of them probably have a hard time of it for a while, but then it gets better. My brother is an optimist. He wanted to help. I sat there thinking this had to be the pits.
I was afraid that I had become fed up with life, that I would never ever feel enthusiasm again. Then my brother said he was going travelling.
He would be leaving in a few days and be gone for two months. He offered to lend me his flat. I said thank you and we sat without saying anything until my brother looked at his watch and realised Sports Review had begun. He asked me whether I would object to going inside. It was my birthday after all, and there was cake left. The next morning I awoke feeling things could not continue the way they had been. I lay there thinking. It wasnt anything to do with croquet.
I was certain about that. Croquet is a small thing and this was a big thing. Quite soon it began to dawn on me that this had a direct connection with the fact that I had become 25 and wasnt handling it very well. To me, growing older has for a long time been associated with a certain uneasiness.
I generally dont give a toss about space, but I have a problem with time. While I was getting dressed I realised there was no way I could spend this day doing the same things I used to spend my days doing. The days would have to become different. The nights, too. I stood for a while looking out of the window. Then I made a choice. I cycled up to the university and said I no longer saw myself in a position to complete my degree. The departmental secretary asked me if there was something the matter and if there was anything she could do.
I thought her concern was touching, but I didnt feel like talking. I thanked her briefly for her interest, and answered yes to the first question and no to the other. I cycled back to town and put an end to the rest of my old existence. I visited the paper where I had from time to time submitted material, and told them I wouldnt be writing any more for a while.
Maybe never. I also cancelled my bedsit, the telephone and the newspaper subscription. And I sold my books, and the TV set. The rest of my belongings I fitted into a rucksack and two cardboard boxes. I placed the boxes in my parents attic and put the rucksack on my back, and cycled home to my brothers place.
There I sat sweating. I had performed a feat. No nonsense here. This was not Sesame Street. The Ball A few weeks have passed. I am sitting in my brothers flat. Once a day I go down to download some food.
And if there is any mail, I open it and fax it to my brother. It is an amazingly long fax number. I feel increasingly sure he is in Africa. Ive been looking for the note on which I wrote down his address, but I cant find it. Besides this I hardly do anything at all.
I flip through the newspaper or lie on the couch staring into space. I have no plans. I still have the feeling that its all pretty meaningless. Its no inspiring feeling. Ive turned the tempo all the way down. To zero. I am thinking that I need to start from scratch. How does one start from scratch? Yesterday I made a list of what I have and what I dont have.
Parents Grandparents A large study loan A BA degree A camera A handful of borrowed money An almost new pair of trainers This is what I dont have: Plans Enthusiasm A girlfriend The sense that things fit together and that everything will be all right in the end A winning personality A watch Every time I have looked at the list today, Ive noticed that I have more than what I dont have.
I have 11 things. I lack 6 things. This ought to be a source of optimism. But having read the list closely it has become clear to me that it is an altogether unbalanced and bad piece of arithmetic. It wont even out. Some of what I have I could easily do without, and several of the things I dont have appear to me as central to living the way Id like to live. For example, Id swap my bad friend for some enthusiasm anytime. Or a girlfriend. But I know just as well as everybody else that it doesnt work that way.
I played around adding together the numbers on the lists. It makes Quite a large number when dealing with essential things in a persons life.
For a few seconds I was quite proud. But it makes no sense whatsoever. Its stupid to add together things one has and things one doesnt have.
And besides, some of those things are less essential. The watch for example. I wish I had a watch, but I wouldnt claim that its essential. I just fancy having one. To pay more attention to time. As Ive said, I have a problem dealing with time, and I think its better to confront ones problems than to avoid them.
But the watch as essential? Its the same with the trainers. Theyre not essential either, but I have them. Maybe I could say the watch and the trainers cancel each other out.
Which is Also quite a big number in this context. But regrettably also useless, and as devoid of meaning as I must try to think about something else. I am lying on the couch dozing when I hear a fax coming. I wait for it to come through and for the machine to cut the sheet. It takes about a minute. Now the sheet is falling to the floor. I get up to fetch it. Its from Kim. Kim is my good friend. Ive known him for a few years. Hes a good guy, and in the process of becoming a meteorologist.
He is doing his practical on an island up north. As far as I have understood he is alone on the island. He reads a few gauges and calculates something or other. Then he calls the Meteorological Institute at Blindern a couple of times every 24 hours. I think he is a little lonely up there. He faxes me all the time. I have trouble keeping up with his pace. Ive told him Im not capable of faxing him as often as he faxes me.
He says its OK, but I know it weighs heavily on him. Without having said the words, weve kind of reached an agreement where he can fax me as much as he likes, while I only reply when I feel up to it. Its an agreement I can live with. I can see from the fax that Kim has been watching some programme or other on TV. He quotes: 1. Quit your job. Go travelling. Make new friends. I have told Kim how I am doing these days. Hes trying to help me. Thats good of him. Under my brothers desk I have a box on which Ive written Kim.
In it, I put all the faxes he sends me. The box is already almost full. After Kim learned that I am staying somewhere with a fax, theres hardly been a quiet moment. Now Im lying down on the couch again.
Something is going to have to happen. Not necessarily something big. Just something. I decide to go out and download something that will make me think about nice things, or preferably just smile.
I visit several shops, but cant find anything that I like. I try to define some criteria for what I seek. For some reason Ive become caught up in this thing about lists. Lists are a good thing. Ill be making many of them in the time to come. Im making one now. After a bit of thinking it becomes apparent that Im looking for an object which: Is small enough for me to carry easily Costs no more than a hundred kroner Can be used many many times Can be used indoors as well as outdoors Can be used alone or with someone else Gets me active Makes me forget about time I sit down on a bench and take a closer look at the list.
For a long time. It is an honest list. I am happy with it. Maybe a suitable object exists, and maybe it doesnt. Its not that important. But the list is important. This is a discovery to me. This has value. I sit there pondering which objects will fulfil my desires. It could be several. But I just want one thing. Suddenly it is clear to me that what I seek is a ball. A ball, plain and simple. I feel a sting of eagerness.
Its been a long time since I thought about balls. Im happy that it came to mind. This is the way to go. Now I just have to find a ball.
How does one choose a ball? The world is full of balls. People use them all the time. For fun, games and probably other things. It all comes down to choosing the right one. I visit a sports shop. They have an overwhelming selection of balls. Nice, expensive balls. Made from leather and other durable materials. I examine them, but find them too demanding. Ill be feeling a lot of pressure to perform if I download a ball like that. The time is not ripe for a quality ball. The element of competition must be downplayed right now.
Recreation is the key word. I need a plain, basic ball. And preferably a plastic one. I go to a toy store. Here the selection is more sensible. Fortunately they only have a handful of models.
In a few different sizes and colours. I weigh a few of them in my hand and bounce a couple of them on the floor. In the end I make it simple and choose a red plastic ball of average size. It costs just under fifty kroner. They give me a bag to carry it in. Then I cycle home. I fax Kim: In the best of moods. Bought a red ball.
I lie down on the couch with the ball resting on my chest. Now Im waiting for evening to come. When it gets dark Im going to go down into the courtyard and throw the ball against a wall. I look forward to that. The Tree Ive been throwing the ball in the courtyard several nights in a row now. Usually I go down after the late news and place myself in a corner where there are no windows.
It is a little-used patch, illuminated only by a single light bulb. Theres something very good about throwing. I dont quite know what it is.
More people ought to throw. We ought to be throwing, every one of us. Things would look different then. We would be happier. I throw the ball against the wall and let it bounce off the ground once before catching it. Its a good ball. It always comes back. And it fits comfortably in my hand. I had forgotten how good it is to feel a ball. To hold it. Its so round. It makes me forget about time. Im throwing again now. The red plastic ball hits the wall and emits a little tone.
Then it bounces off the ground and emits another tone. Then I catch it, hold it for a moment and throw it again. I do it automatically. Without thinking about what Im doing. I can think about other things.
Tonight Im thinking about my grandfather. A few weeks ago he told me a story. Its a story about a good world. My grandparents live in a yellow wooden house they built a long time ago.
They have a big garden that theyve always spent a lot of time on. Flowers and trees and bushes mean a lot to them. They know all the names and when things are supposed to be planted and when they have to be watered and pruned. They often talk about plants and give flowers to friends and family.
Its been that way for as long as I can remember. When they built the house, my grandfather planted an apple tree. At the bottom of the garden. I have never seen that tree. It was gone when I was born. But Ive heard about it. When the tree had grown for many years, it started to yield apples. A lot of apples. My grandmother used to make juice and preserves from the apples.
It was a good apple tree. But then something happened. It had been a good summer and the apples were nice and big. They were about to be picked. But one morning the tree had been destroyed.
Several thick branches were lying on the ground. My grandfather said it looked bad.
It would not grow apples again. The tree was going to die. My grandfather went inside to give my grandmother the sad news. Then he took off his work clothes, put on something more appropriate, and went down the lane past the cemetery and down to the college. There he spoke to the principal. The college acted, and after some time three young students came forward. They had been out pinching apples and things had got a little out of control.
They had very guilty consciences. It was a prank. Not a big thing, but serious enough. And both my grandfather and the principal were concerned with sorting things out fair and square. A new apple tree cost kroner in those days. It was agreed that the boys should pay for a new tree. They would pay 50 kroner each. My grandfather told me it was a lot of money back then. The boys would pay a weekly sum the rest of that autumn and well into spring, until everything was paid back and they were even.
My grandfather had himself been to that college and he knew the boys didnt have a lot to get by on. They were boarders, some of them were far away from home and their families had already dug deep into their pockets in order to send them to college. They had to take the money for the apple tree out of their own allowances. That probably meant any expensive and boyish activities had to be limited considerably. They could hardly download anything, not go to the cinema, not treat the girls to a soda, pretty much nothing at all.
Every Saturday the boys came dejectedly to my grandparents door to pay. They said very little. They just held out their hands and dropped the coins into my grandfathers huge palm. He nodded gravely and confirmed thereby that things were going the way they should.
It went on that way. Winter came and went, and then spring. In May the garden was once again in bloom and the polytechnic was about to go on vacation.
The boys were going home for summer. When they came by for the last time, they were all dressed up. It was something of an occasion for them. They rang the doorbell and my grandmother invited them in. She had made coffee and waffles. The boys were served and they made the last payment and shook my grandparents hands. The case was closed. The boys were relieved. They cheered up, and for the first time they talked with my grandparents. They told them about school and summer.
They told them where they came from. Their faces were happy. The debt was paid. They were cleansed and could finally hold their heads high. After a while the boys got up to leave. Goodbyes were said, and they walked towards the door. Then my grandfather got up. Hang on, he said, there was one more thing. And the boys stopped. My grandfather crossed the floor. He went over to the big kitchen dresser and opened it.
He stuck his hand deep inside it and came out with three envelopes. Then he walked over to the boys and gave one to each of them. The boys couldnt quite understand. They looked at each other. Then they opened the envelopes and tears started running down their cheeks. My grandfather had given them their money back.
Im still standing here throwing the ball. Ive really got into the rhythm of it. I cant see any reason to stop, even though the going is good.
This game wont go bad. No matter how long I keep at it, it cant possibly go bad. My grandfather told me he had been planning to give the money back all the time. It wasnt about the money, he said. Im thinking about the boys. Theyre grown-ups today. Probably over fifty years old. They must have had the feeling that the world was good.
That things fitted together. That something meant something. I wonder what they are doing now. They probably have families themselves, and gardens with apple trees. My grandfather is a really good guy. I wonder whether I am a really good guy. I wonder whether there are any really good guys at all in my generation. Time This morning I found a book in my brothers bookcase.
Its in English and deals with time and the universe and everything. I flipped through some pages, but started sweating and had to put it down. It was too much for me.
There are limits to what I can handle right now. I walked around in the flat for a while, feeling uneasy. To divert my thoughts, I started to look through one of my brothers old photo albums. There are several photographs of me there. I am little.
And often dressed in the strangest clothes. Always corduroy. I must have had outrageous self-confidence as a child. In one of the photographs I am standing next to my new bike. Its green and has five red ladybirds on the crossbar. Im wearing a yellow and brown pair of dungarees. Im going cycling. That was the only plan. When I awoke in the morning, I would think; the bike. One thought. Today I wake up and have a lot of thoughts. At least five. Its a hassle.
I dont know what its all about. What is it about? I faxed Kim, asking whether his parents used to dress him up in corduroy when he was little.
I also ask him if he knows what its all about. He faxes me back answering yes to the first question but no to the second one. Kim always faxes me back immediately.
Its like hes just sitting there waiting for me to fax. That worries me a bit. While I sat looking at the sheet from Kim which said yes and no, the uneasiness came back. I realised I had moved, and that I was spending increasingly more time over by the bookcase. The book stood there and I stood a distance from it. I peered at it while moving closer and closer. In the end I was sitting with it in my lap, thinking I might just as well explore the core of my problem now rather than later.
Im not quite sure, but I think it was a mature decision. The book is written by a professor called Paul. Im thinking that someone with a name as friendly as that couldnt possibly want to scare me. I have been reading for several hours now, and I am discovering that my entire being is becoming influenced.
Even though it says Paul is known to write in simple terms about complicated things, I find it difficult. Paul dabbles with difficult things.
My basis for understanding him is weaker than average. I opted out of maths and physics after my first year of secondary school.
At the time I figured I could see a whole lot of other things Id rather base my existence on. Today Im not so sure any more.
Maybe it was a mistake. In other words, I dont understand everything. Maybe I understand even less than I think, but what I do grasp fascinates and scares me. I had no idea my brother read books like this. There are obviously things I dont understand about my brother. Theres even more I dont understand about time. In a laboratory in Bonn stands a three-metre-long metal cylinder. Paul writes that it is shaped like a submarine and lies in a steel frame surrounded by wires and measuring instruments.
Its an atomic clock, and it is currently the most accurate clock known. It is more accurate than the earths rotation. Such accuracy amazes me. It obviously has little to do with the earth. Its just something somebody has decided. I like that. Strangely enough, I feel time becomes more tangible that way.
I think Id like to have an atomic clock. To compensate for the irregularity of the earth, a second is added now and then. The last time they added a second was in June Nobody ever said anything about that. The definition of time has changed due to atomic clocks. Before, a second used to be one86,th of a day, but now it has become 9,,, cycles of a caesium atom. I think its a lot. This information puts me out of the game.
I feel unwell and need to fetch the ball. I throw it for a while against the refrigerator before Im able to continue reading.
I remember when we used to drink milk in primary school. Many of us had digital wristwatches. With a chronometer function. We had hundredths. We timed the most absurd things. It was the big thing in those days. For a long time it was all about drinking your school milk as fast as possible. I always took more than five seconds, but Espen, that thug, drank the entire carton in well under a second. In light of what I have just read, I think thats amazing.
Personally I engage in very little that takes less than a second. On occasion I take photographs with a shutter speed of one thousandth of a second.
But thats nothing compared to what caesium atoms get up to. Can I be sure that its valid? More than nine billion cycles per second? I cant picture it. Its too many. My ability to estimate how many units there are in an amount is limited. I can easily tell whether there are four or nine cows in a field, but if its more than fifteen I have to count.
And anything more than a thousand doesnt really matter.
I have no means of controlling the caesium atoms. I have to assume that Paul knows what hes talking about. I have to take his word for it. Now Ive read some more.
It gets worse and worse. Paul says gravity influences time. The man knows no limits. Totally without warning he says that time is influenced by gravity and by movement. I look at the sleeve of the book. Its from a serious publisher. What hes saying is probably right. I get annoyed. Why hasnt anybody told me about this? Dont physics teachers understand that this kind of information makes all the difference?
Are they stupid? The reason I opted out of physics was because we sat drawing protons and neutrons without grasping how it all really fitted together. I was bored. Id much rather turn to face the girls and make a ring with my left thumb and index finger, and then move my right index finger in and out of this ring repeatedly.
Time was never mentioned. Not one of my teachers has ever mentioned time not so much as a word. I ought to find out whether they know anything or not. Maybe theyve known all along. In that case I ought to wreak revenge. I ought to give them a hard shove in the back when they least expect it. I feel cheated.
I feel I cant trust anybody any more. Time on the sun passes one two billionths slower than with us. It has to do with gravity. Paul says gravity is stronger up there.
I thought time was time and gravity was gravity. Evidently thats not the way it is. With a couple of really good atomic clocks one could prove it in the Empire State Building. Im not making this up. If one places an atomic clock at the bottom of the Empire State Building and another one at the top, after a while one will see that the one at the top goes faster.
During the course of a human life one would save a few thousandths of a second by staying at street level. Those sitting at the top would be a little older than the rest of us. Now Im putting the book down. I feel Im becoming groggy. Im in rebellion. There is no time. I can hardly see the conclusion being any other. There is at least not any one, single time. My time. Your time. Pauls time. The suns time. Lots of times. Many times equals no time. If thats the case I ought to be glad.
Why arent I glad? I feel stressed. Maybe Ill be glad later. The Bike Im still not glad. I was mad to read that book. Blind courage. I no longer feel so sure that Paul is just friendly. It is possible that time does not exist, although things still move. Life is in motion. We are born and we die. I grow older. What good does it do that time is not the same on the sun? Someone ought to come and employ me.
Someone ought to ask me to build something. Carry something really heavy. Sandblast something very big. Its been a long time since I worked up a real sweat. Ive written a new list. It shows what used to excite me when I was younger. Its quite long. It was so nice and uncomplicated. When I wasnt sleeping I ran around and was excited.