Since ?rebro had few inhabitants, I recognized everybody I saw in the streets. Maybe I didn′t know them by name, but I recognized their faces and we said hello and smiled to each other. Men wore hats and greeted me by slightly lifting their brims. All through my childhood and adolescence I felt I belonged there, in this small town of ?rebro.
There was a river with black water running through the town circling the castle and slowly drifting into a big lake. From there, you could reach the Baltic Sea and eventually, going south, land on distant shores. I used to sit by the river and let my thoughts float away with the stream. I dreamt of exotic places that would offer me thrilling adventures. But somehow I knew that a part of me would always stay in my home town.
“On ne part pas”. You never really leave because there is always something you bring with you. Likewise, people I met in my childhood have influenced the way I have reacted towards new acquaintances later on in life.
Another resemblance with my childhood town however was that commercial products were scarce and at the department store “Bai hou da Lou” there were no foreign luxury goods to be found. This was a long time ago and since then, people have changed in ?rebro as well as in Beijing. But in my memory, these two cities still exist as they used to be and in my writing I often come back to the strong impressions and experiences they inspired in me back then.
In the eighties, I lived with my family in Tokyo, Japan for three years. A great challenge. My husband travelled a lot as a foreign correspondent for Swedish Television and I stayed at home with my two children. In order to survive in this place where nobody spoke my language, I decided to learn Japanese.
ParisI cannot think of any other city in the world that has inspired and influenced as many writers, poets and artists as Paris has. And I feel honored to be one of them. In 1986, I made my literary debut with a collection of poetry titled “Odelbarhet” (Indivisibilily) greatly inspired by the city of Paris and its people. It also contains love poetry, because Paris is after all the city of wandering lovers, of love by excellence.
is a truly beautiful city but its history is very violent. Its founders were Celts, then came the Romans and the Franks and you can still today visit the remains of all these different civilizations. Most dominant are the monuments from the Napoleon era like the Arc of Triumph and the remnants from the Big World Exhibition in 1900 like the Eiffel Tower and the Grand Palais and Petit Palais. And the world′s greatest Museum of Art residing in the Louvre of course. Several millions of visitors come every year to admire its precious collection of art and sculpture.
In Paris you can also travel under the ground. The famous Metro has been connecting different parts of the city since the year 1900. During one of my many journeys in the Metro, I remember reading Arthur Rimbaud′s “A time in hell”.
I read the first sentence in Rimbaud′s book: “Once upon a time, if I remember right, life was a party and all hearts opened up to me and the wine flowed freely.”
“Where were you in the text, madam? Now that there is no light, you cannot read. But I can read in the dark.”
And to my great surprise, the voice continued to recite the verses of Rimbaud′s poetry. This calm and secure voice delivering those beautiful words soothed my fear of the darkness. It took an eternity for the lights to come back on, but despite that unsettling fact, I felt no stress.
“Excuse my curiosity, Monsieur, but was it you?”
“Are you a teacher? How come you know this text by heart?”
“You see, madam, that time in hell, I carry it in my heart.”
He was just about to get off at the next station but before leaving, he added:
Notre Dame is perhaps the most famous cathedral in the world, situated on “Ile de la Cité” an island in the Seine river in Paris. For more than 800 years people have come to this place to worship, to seek consolation and to receive blessings. I often go there to watch people, to admire the architectural beauty of the gothic vaults, to gather my thoughts or to simply rest my legs. The cathedral is like a treasure chest containing the history of Paris. And I have seen extraordinary things happen there over the past 25 years.
There is a statue of Jeanne d’Arc, Joan of Arc, under one of the multicolored rosary windows. Despite a very short physical life, she has played a decisive role in French history. She is a symbol of French freedom and independence and worshiped as a saint. In my opinion, she represents the feminine strength to fight for something you truly believe in and attain your goal against all odds. But as it often happens in history, strong women meet a tragic end and so did Joan of Arc. She was burnt at the stake in 1431, only 18 years old.
Despite my startled surprise, I simply answered: “My name is Birgitta, what is yours?”
I hesitantly raised my head and glanced up at the statue. There she was as usual, Joan of Arc, in her composed stone posture, but standing beside her, high up on the pedestal, was also a live old woman. She was dressed in a beautifully fashioned black coat with a fur collar and fur cuffs. She wore a round little black hat with a mourning veil of lace and a small black purse made of cloth. Her face was pretty with dark brown eyes and marked red lips.
“Why are you standing there?”
Then she asked me who I was. And that is a very difficult question, deeply philosophical. Who am I? What shall I answer to that? I am a woman, but that she can see for herself. My age? That she can easily guess. My profession? If I tell her that I am a teacher, will it say anything about my personality? She was eagerly waiting for an answer so I simply told her: “I am a story teller.”
I do not know why, but I told her the story of a young girl who wouldn′t eat because she refused to grow up and now she was starving herself to death.
So I told her about my garden, how I love to plant flowers and see them grow and bloom. Blue hyacinths are my favorite flowers, they give me hope and joy, I told her.
“Oh, that is Claire. A lovely old woman. She used to be a ballet dancer and she is still agile as a cat. Occasionally, I go by to see if she needs any help to get down.”
So the story telling never ends. We, the authors who write them down, we will eventually disappear. But stories have lives of their own. Ever since the first human beings sat down around the fire for food and warmth, we’ve been telling stories. And I believe that the soul of a city is the sum of all the stories which its inhabitants have been telling and will continue to tell till the end of time.
Thank you for listening to my story!
