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Book review: Charmlöst whining in Linus Gårdfeldts The rat

the Genre of guy-writes-poetry-about-her-writer's block, I thought made his final exit from my life when I sometime in the early twenties ended up going on the

- 3 reads.

Book review: Charmlöst whining in Linus Gårdfeldts The rat

the Genre of guy-writes-poetry-about-her-writer's block, I thought made his final exit from my life when I sometime in the early twenties ended up going on the peers skrivarskoleuppläsningar. A hasty conclusion, perhaps – some members of this tribe are, after all, more välkamouflerade than others, as Sweden's most acclaimed poet Johan Jönson. But despite the fact that the genre has been explored thoroughly by a long crowd of fragile killsjälar around the country folkisar, it is nevertheless seldom the lead over Bonnier's water ditches. But sometimes it happens.

Linus Gårdfeldt is now certainly far from a skrivarskolestudent; at Bonniers, he made his debut ten years ago and has since managed to bring out four collections of poetry. ”The rat”, his fifth, is a lättplöjd thing where the airy abstractions that characterized the latest collection ”Lys with the monkey” (2014) turned towards a far more jerky, samtidskommenterande poem that works with the flat statements and an interplay between the vardagsbanala, the självironiska patetiken, and a mångriktat rage.

book review: Linus Gårdfeldts debut ”But the floor has no mouth”

the narrator's bitter mudslinging is a little bit of everything: poetry and författartillvaron, in particular, but also ”the graduate ekomedelklassen”, it moves litteraturetablissemanget, and some kind of general political debate. The rat ränner as an insult throughout the book, directed if not against the own poetic practice, so more often than not against an imagined ”up”, where a book deals with Hegel's aesthetics by Sven-Olov Wallenstein dismissed as älgjaktsöverklass in the same populist breath of the rich government officials.

Yes, the night is today's mother and poetry is the neighbor with the faeces, the money and the great futility. But nevertheless, as the poet chained thus: ”but poetry, therefore, / it is that which shall be written / through my bridle”; ”there are so many things that are more important / still I sit here / maybe it means something”. Where språknihilismen of, for example, Johan Jönson is based in a reflection on lönearbetets the colonization of our lives and language, and a poet Pär Thörn highlights företagsspråkens infiltration into our daily lives by screwing it to the ecstatic absurd, feels the narrator's self-imposed martyrdom of Gårdfeldt as a oengagerande private depprunk, and the political samtidssatiren obscure nonspecific (or ooriginell – like Södermalmsfasoner as urban arts and crafts and a full beard portrayed as corrupt).

In slutpassagen be certainly a short lyrical opening, but it does not compensate for the charmlösa whining we had to endure in a whole bokvolym. Better would be if Gårdfeldt picked up where he left off the last time, and let jordfästa this poor skrivarskole-incel for good.

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