hobbit feet put on. And Peter, the director that is, always had time for everyone and made them feel competent and important even though his head was full of the larger narrative and of the staging options necessary to communicate it in the best possible way to all Tolkien lovers around the globe. An extraordinary man, Peter. Big, teddy bear-like, fun to the tips of his toes and at the same time extremely competent and normal. I suppose I am not quite in his class. Film production is one of the last things I should try my hand at. I can imagine that you need crystal clear vision and energy to spend years of your life steering it past all the obstacles, and you have to motivate a huge number of people to do their best, although they may not have anywhere near the same conception of the totality as you. It’s insanity, nothing less. The actors would hate me as much as I would hate them. I wouldn’t be able to take the story seriously. Battle scenes between non-existent creatures. What is that? I would have created an apprehensive and spiteful atmosphere on the set, and the film would have become an apprehensive and spiteful film. No Oscars coming its way. And no nice, well-to-do teenagers queuing to secure tickets for the premiere.
It’s a very good thing it wasn’t me who made Lord of the Rings or any of the other films on release in the world. People are talented, it occurs to me. People get things done. And the world around me is going to continue being nice and talented whereas I’ve been nice and talented for the last time.
How was the parents’ meeting? Nora asks at length.
It was fine. Hear you’re going on a trip, I say. Exciting.
She nods, listening to Liv Tyler learning Elvish on TV. It was demanding, we’re told. That’s all I needed. Not only is it a dead language but it’s a dead language that has never existed anywhere except in a diligent Englishman’s imagination.
Elvish is a fantastically beautiful language, Nora says.
Doubtless, I say.
You can say so many things that you can’t say in other languages, she says.
Such as? I ask.
For example, I love you, she says. It sounds pathetic in Norwegian and in fact it’s beginning to sound pathetic in English, too, she opines.
But in Elvish it just sounds wonderful.
That may well be, I say. But how often do people of your age need to say they love someone? I ask.
You know nothing about that, Nora says.
I don’t, I say. That’s why I’m asking.
It’s quite possible for someone to love another person even though they’re young, she says, piqued.
And who is it possible for someone to love? I ask.
Boyfriends perhaps, Nora says.
Ha! I say.
Or Peter Jackson, she says.
I laugh my arse off.
Against my will I have to spend the night in the house. To tell the truth, the plan had been to carry Gregus up to the tent in my backpack while he slept but nice, conscientious Nora stopped me. Now they’re both asleep and I have palpitations thinking about poor Bongo not knowing where I am. The little moose will be running around feeling all alone. He won’t be able to go into the tent, either. After all he hasn’t got any hands. It’s pretty limited what a moose can manipulate, from a fine-motor co-ordination point of view.
Apart from illicit visits to Düsseldorf’s house and the odd trip to ICA it’s six months since I have been in a building. My appetite isn’t whetted at all. I walk around, restless. Fill my rucksack with the tools and dry foods I may need. Watch a spot of TV; there is the usual rich selection of tennis matches and reconstructed crimes and more or less fictional stories about the vicissitudes of human life. For me, watching TV is a compilation of all the reasons why I don’t like people. TV is a concentrated form of everything that is repulsive about us. Those human qualities which in real life are already difficult to reconcile yourself with stick out like a sore thumb when they appear on TV. People seem like idiots. On
It’s a very good thing it wasn’t me who made Lord of the Rings or any of the other films on release in the world. People are talented, it occurs to me. People get things done. And the world around me is going to continue being nice and talented whereas I’ve been nice and talented for the last time.
How was the parents’ meeting? Nora asks at length.
It was fine. Hear you’re going on a trip, I say. Exciting.
She nods, listening to Liv Tyler learning Elvish on TV. It was demanding, we’re told. That’s all I needed. Not only is it a dead language but it’s a dead language that has never existed anywhere except in a diligent Englishman’s imagination.
Elvish is a fantastically beautiful language, Nora says.
Doubtless, I say.
You can say so many things that you can’t say in other languages, she says.
Such as? I ask.
For example, I love you, she says. It sounds pathetic in Norwegian and in fact it’s beginning to sound pathetic in English, too, she opines.
But in Elvish it just sounds wonderful.
That may well be, I say. But how often do people of your age need to say they love someone? I ask.
You know nothing about that, Nora says.
I don’t, I say. That’s why I’m asking.
It’s quite possible for someone to love another person even though they’re young, she says, piqued.
And who is it possible for someone to love? I ask.
Boyfriends perhaps, Nora says.
Ha! I say.
Or Peter Jackson, she says.
I laugh my arse off.
Against my will I have to spend the night in the house. To tell the truth, the plan had been to carry Gregus up to the tent in my backpack while he slept but nice, conscientious Nora stopped me. Now they’re both asleep and I have palpitations thinking about poor Bongo not knowing where I am. The little moose will be running around feeling all alone. He won’t be able to go into the tent, either. After all he hasn’t got any hands. It’s pretty limited what a moose can manipulate, from a fine-motor co-ordination point of view.
Apart from illicit visits to Düsseldorf’s house and the odd trip to ICA it’s six months since I have been in a building. My appetite isn’t whetted at all. I walk around, restless. Fill my rucksack with the tools and dry foods I may need. Watch a spot of TV; there is the usual rich selection of tennis matches and reconstructed crimes and more or less fictional stories about the vicissitudes of human life. For me, watching TV is a compilation of all the reasons why I don’t like people. TV is a concentrated form of everything that is repulsive about us. Those human qualities which in real life are already difficult to reconcile yourself with stick out like a sore thumb when they appear on TV. People seem like idiots. On
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