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Ida Hegazi Høyer

Portrait of Ida Hegazi Høyer

Ida Hegazi Høyer, née en 1981, est Norvégienne mais a des ancêtres dano-égyptiens. Elle vient des îles Lofoten, dans le nord de la Norvège mais a grandi à Oslo. Høyer a étudié la sociologie, a travaillé dans un magasin de vêtements et vit actuellement à Oslomarka – la région boisée qui entoure Oslo. Elle est l’auteure de trois romans: son premier roman Under the World (Sous le monde) fut publié en automne 2012, suivi par Out  (Dehors) en 2013 et enfin par Forgive Me (Pardonne moi) en 2014. En août 2014 elle a reçu le prix littéraire norvégien Bjørnsonstipendet, décerné aux jeunes auteurs de talent. 

Winning Book

Unnskyld (Forgive me)

Pardonne-moi (2014), est un roman intense qui parle d’amour, d’amère déception et de secrets dangereux. Dans ce troisième livre d’Ida Hegazi Høyer, une jeune femme rencontre un jeune homme, et c’est le coup de foudre. Il est un étudiant en philosophie et l’impressionne beaucoup par ses discours intellectuels teintés d’individualisme et par son esprit libre – il semble être l’homme parfait. Ils emménagent dans un petit appartement et dans les jours et semaines qui suivent, ils sont totalement pris de passion l’un pour l’autre. Mais assez rapidement elle commence à ressentir un certain malaise. Certains petits signes et comportements bizarres suggèrent qu’il n’est pas qui il semble être. Pardonne-moi explore les côtés les plus sombres de la vie quotidienne, avec un réalisme qui semble être à la frontière du rêve et de l’absurdité, utilisant un langage qui séduit et surprend le lecteur, et faisant usage de l’humour noir.

Book Cover of Unnskyld

Publishing House

Address: 

St. Olavs Gate 21B, Oslo, Norvège

Phone No.: 
+47 23 32 76 84
Organisation: 
Tiden Norsk Forlag

Agent / Rights Director

Email Address: 
Representative: 
Richard Aarø

Translation Deals

  • Bulgaria: Colibri
  • FYROM: Antalog
  • Hungary: Noran Libro
  • Serbia: Sezam Book

Excerpt

Translated by Diane Oatley

 

There was a bed on the pavement. All the way from the end of the street you could see that there was a bed in front of our entrance – someone was moving in, someone was moving out, something was wrong. But it wasn’t until I came up close and was about to go inside, that I saw that it was our bed, our duvet, our pillows. It all looked like an installation out there on the street.

 

It was a Sunday, nearly summer now, I came home and our bed was outside. You had made it, the duvet neatly folded, the pillows without head hollows, and the bedspread, which we never actually used, hung over the frame. An eternally closed night-time segment.  Probably I paused, sensing a stop or a warning, don’t go upstairs. And it was hot, the middle of the day, burning light beneath the sky.

The one flight up. Ten steps, two steps, then ten steps more. You hadn’t left the door open. You had locked it. And this I would never forget – you knew I was the only one with a key.

 

The dog ran out. The minute I let myself in, she came running past me. And I saw. And I understood. Your pictures, our pictures, they were no longer hanging on the walls. The skyscrapers were on the floor, face-down, two empty frames of white.

 

Our window was closed and the blinds were down. The closet doors were shut, the lights were out, and in the middle of the floor, where the bed had been, lay a kitchen chair. Not a sound to be heard, no air to be breathed. Twelve noon.

 

I did not go over to you. But I went into the room.

 

I walked around you, along the walls, to the window, to the day. I pulled up the blinds, opened the window, and I could have jumped; it would have been fine, because right there beneath me, positioned precisely for falling, was our bed.

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