Sleet. Stig Dagerman

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       Preface

      I was introduced to the work of Stig Dagerman by his daughter, Lo, nearly twenty-five years ago. At the time we were both mothers of preschool sons, and in the way of mothers overseeing playdates, we had begun to exchange brief biographies as we sat together on Lo’s back deck while our boys played their imaginary games in her yard. I learned that Lo’s father had been a Swedish writer of much renown, a novelist, a short story writer, a poet, and a playwright. He was also a journalist. In 1946, he had been sent on assignment to postwar Germany to record the devastation there, one of the first independent journalists to do so. His second wife, Lo’s mother, Anita Björk, was an actress. He committed suicide in 1954, at thirty-one, when Lo was younger than our sons were when we met.

      Of course, I asked if her father’s work was available in English. Lo had a British edition of German Autumn, her father’s collected articles about the German people after the fall of the Third Reich; a book of short stories called The Games of Night; and a novel, A Burnt Child. She hoped eventually, she said, to find some time (as working mothers of preschool children, we were well familiar with that how to find the time refrain) to seek out an American translator for her father’s work.

      Our four-year-olds were running and calling in the yard. A suburban autumn, as I recall. It so happened, I told her, that among my graduate students that semester there was a very bright and talented young fiction writer named Steven Hartman, who was also fluent in Swedish.

      It’s inevitable, perhaps, that while reading Steven Hartman’s translations of Stig Dagerman’s stories collected here in Sleet, I find myself recalling something of the substance of those days when Lo and I were young mothers standing watchful on the periphery of our small sons’ games. Young boys, after all, imaginative young boys, appear often enough in these stories: large-eyed, as one thinks of them, tentative, observant, loving, lonely. And I suppose it could be argued that the various autobiographical settings of the stories, from the small farms and villages – Dagerman himself spent his first six years living on his grandparents’ farm in Älvkarleby – to the working class flats of Stockholm – where he later lived with his father and stepmother – have a kind of parallel in the urban/rural convergence that is a secluded backyard in a busy American suburb. But personal experience and its attendant associations seem insufficient to explain the depth of feeling that these stories achieve. For me, there is something at work here that calls to mind much more than the circumstances of my own introduction to Stig Dagerman’s writing. It is, I think, a tremendous generosity of heart, an overwhelming empathy expressed in tandem with a keen awareness of the inevitable suffering, the loneliness and pain, the pettiness and cruelty, that make up the human experience. There is a compassion to Stig Dagerman’s clear-eyed vision СКАЧАТЬ