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Carl Frode Tiller

Portrait of Carl Frode Tiller

Carl Frode Tiller (né en 1970) est un auteur, historien et musicien. Ses œuvres sont écrites en nynorsk (litt. : « néo-norvégien »), une des deux langues officielles de la Norvège. Son premier roman, Skråninga (litt. : « La pente »), a été reconnu meilleur premier livre de l’année par le Tarjel Vesaas’ Debute Prize et sélectionné pour le Brageprisen (un prix décerné par un jury). En novembre 2007, Carl Frode Tiller a reçu le Brageprisen pour son roman Innsirkling (Encerclement). A l’automne 2007, Innsirkling a a reçu le prix des critiques norvégiens et a été sélectionné pour le plus prestigieux prix de littérature scandinave, le Grand Prix de littérature du Conseil nordique.

  • EUPL Year: 
    2009
  • EUPL Country: 

Winning Book

Innsirkling (« Encerclement », 2010)

« Encerclement » est un roman qui couvre un large et profond éventail de thèmes, tant psychologiques que sociologiques. La composition du roman est très fine – il passe facilement d’un narrateur à l’autre, expérimentant ainsi différents points de vue, tout en utilisant en alternance le style épistolaire, les dialogue et le monologue intérieur. David ne se souvient plus de qui il est. Une annonce dans le journal demande à ceux qui peuvent le connaître et à ses amis de lui écrire des lettres pour qu’il puisse retrouver ses souvenirs. Les lettres créent un réseau de textes où les vies de David, des correspondants et d’autres personnes sont réécrites et réévaluées. Les lettres ont été écrites en 2006 mais se concentrent sur le passé. De cette manière, de fausses perspectives se créent, qui se concentrent sur des rêves d’adolescent, les ambitions des artistes, les plans des gens pour le futur. C’est l’histoire d’une génération de Norvégiens, sur les rôles des sexes, sur la recherche de la popularité et de l’identité. Ce livre soulève aussi de nombreuses questions sur ce qu’est une vie et comment l’histoire d’une vie peut être créée sous l’influence des histoires d’autres personnes.

Cover of Innsirkling

Publishing House

Address: 

P.O. Box 363 Sentrum, Sehesteds gate 3, Oslo, Norvège

Phone No.: 
+47 (22) 40 03 58
Organisation: 
Aschehoug

Translation Deals

  • Albania: Morava
  • Bulgaria: Avangard
  • Croatia: Naklada Ljevak
  • Czech Republic: Dauphin
  • Denmark:  C&K Forlag
  • France: Éditions Stock
  • FYROM: Magor
  • Georgia: Elf Publishing House
  • Germany: Btb (Random House)
  • Hungary: Gondolat
  • Italy: Stilo Editrice
  • Netherlands: Dutch Prometheus
  • Poland: Wydawnictwo Literackie
  • Romania: Casa Cartii de Stiinta
  • Russia: Corpus
  • Serbia: Zavet Publishing House
  • Slovenia: Beletrina Academic Press
  • Spain: Sajalín editores
  • United Kingdom: Sort of Books
  • United States: Graywolf

Excerpt

ranslated by: May-Brit Akerholt

Dear David

I sat on the bus on the way to the cottage when I read that you had lost your memory, and when I got over the shock and started to think about how I could help you to remember again, without my quite understanding why, one memory kept coming back to me, a memory I have decided to start my letter with. In my mind’s eye I saw the two of us on one of our many and long walks in and around Namsos city centre. I didn’t even know that I had this memory in my head before I suddenly sat there in the bus and felt how it was to be seventeen years old and roaming the streets, just you and I, side by side, wandering aimlessly. I seemed to remember we had the idea that we set out on these trips because we were bored and had nothing else to do with our evenings, but when I think back on the discussions we had, how much we had to talk to each other about, how engrossed and engaged we could become and how we used to hurry off in another direction when we saw someone we otherwise would have had to stop and talk to, I think it must be obvious that we also regarded our walks as something meaningful in themselves. If we didn’t think about them as meaningful, we surely must have experienced them as such.
            And perhaps it is this kind of unconscious experience of meaning which is the reason for a fairly undramatic and ordinary memory popping up first and shining the brightest when I read your advertisement. I don’t know, but quite a lot of what I’m referring to in this letter, opinions you had, descriptions of events that took place without me, or of people you knew but whom I never met, I certainly learnt from these discussions of ours.
            When we were in primary school, I didn’t know much more about you than that you were the stepson of a pastor, that you played football and that you could throw a ball the furthest when it was sports day at school. I don’t quite know why I noticed the two last things, perhaps because I myself was so bad at throwing ball and playing football. I used a girlie underarm when I was throwing ball, and I had a reputation for being the first and, for the time being, the last in Namsos Secondary School to do a throw-in when awarded a penalty kick, a reputation I otherwise claimed to be proud of when I got to know you.

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