ABSTRACT
Below is the opening scene of Tarjei Vesaas’ novel The Birds ([1957]2016):
Mattis looked to see if the sky was clear and free of clouds this evening, and it was. Then he said to his sister Hege, to cheer her up: “You’re like lightning.”
The word sent a cold shiver down his spine, but he felt safe all the same, seeing the sky was perfect.
“With those knitting needles of yours, I mean,” he added. Hege nodded unconcerned and went on with the large sweater she was making. Her knitting needles were flashing. She was working on an enormous eight-petaled rose which would soon sit between the shoulders of some man.
“Yes, I know,” she said simply. “But then I’m really grateful for all you do, Hege.”
He was slowly tapping his knee with his middle finger—the way he always did when he was thinking. Up and down, up and down. Hege had long since grown tired of asking him to give up this irritating habit.
Mattis went on: “But you’re not only like lightning with eight petaled roses, it’s the same with everything you do.”
She waved him aside: “Yes, yes, I know.” Mattis was satisfied and said no more.
It was using the word lightning that he found so tempting. Strange lines seemed to form inside his head when he used it, and he felt himself drawn toward it. He was terrified of the lightning in the sky—and he never used the word in hot summer weather when there were heavy clouds. But tonight he was safe. They had had two storms already this spring, with real crashing thunder. As usual, when the storm was at its height Mattis had hidden himself in the privy; for someone had once told him that lightning had never struck such buildings. Mattis wasn’t sure whether this applied to the whole world, but where he was at least it had proven blissfully true so far.
68“Yes, lightning,” he mumbled, half to himself, half to Hege, who was tired of his sudden bragging tonight. But Mattis hadn’t finished.
“I mean at thinking, too,” he said. At this she looked up quickly, as if frightened; something dangerous had been touched. “That’ll do for now,” she said and closed the matter abruptly. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Nothing. Just you sit quiet.”
Hege managed to suppress whatever was trying to come out. The fact was that the tragedy of her simple brother had haunted her for so long now that whenever Mattis used the word think she jumped as if she’d been stung.
Mattis knew something was wrong, but he associated it with the bad conscience he always had because he didn’t work like other people. He rattled off his set piece: “You must find me some work tomorrow. Things can’t go on like this.”
“Yes,” she said, not thinking.
“I can’t allow this to go on. I haven’t earned anything for— ”
“No, it’s a long time since you came home with anything,” she blurted out, a little carelessly, a little sharply. She regretted it the moment it was said; Mattis was very sensitive to criticism on this point, unless he was doing the criticizing himself.
“You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” he told her, and there was an odd expression in his face.
She blushed and bent her head. But Mattis went on: “Talk to me like you talk to other people.”
“Yes, alright.”
Hege kept her head down. Whatever could she do with the impossible? Sometimes she couldn’t control herself and it was then her words hurt.
p. 9 When more words are used to say something than are needed to say it, there is usually a reason for it. Writers are exceptional in that they never want to use more words than they need to use in order to express everything they want to express, so when they appear to waste language, it must be either a mistake or a deliberate effect. The rest of us can afford to waste language for no purpose, writers cannot. 1