My Memories Have Been Taken From Me by Hans-Peter Madsen

Translated from the Danish by Rob Myatt

“There is no-one left today who is scared. The anguish/ has
already spread”— Inger Christensen

“this catastrophized affect […] This portentous pain […]
Forged in grammatical terms, [they] mourn in the future perfect”
—Isak Winkel Holm

1) The frozen earth here, or the corn tassels in the summer: wasted away, it can all be treated
with chemicals; it has been treated with chemicals. The water levels. The furrows like
treacherous ground in the winter, earth that refuses to yield kindly beneath a boot, fields full of
ankle-twisters. But the clouds too, heading out the door, turning your gaze skyward; here, at
that same moment, the soft pink glow of the sunset out the left corner of your eye, a shower to
your right on the opposite side of the fjord, a veil suspended from the clouds, cascading over
the sky, over the horizon, a refreshing deluge. Every text in the third person is a character
assassination.

2) Grit cannot crunch in the winter. It is incorrect to say that snow squeaks, not because snow
does not squeak but because the authors who write that have forgotten what the squeaking of
snow sounds like. Gathering it up in your mittens, patting or squeezing it, gathering it up with
your bare hands. Is the ground furrowed or stubby? I remember: a color. Not a smell, winter is
the only season with no bouquet.

3) It hasn’t snowed this year. It’s summer now, it didn’t snow earlier in the year. The geese
stayed put all winter long.

4) The snow of poetry is not cold. The snow of poetry is not a phenomenon that occurs as the
result of certain weather conditions in certain climates. The snow of poetry is something white
doves leave footprints in. I sit down in the snow. Or in the muddy turf on the lawn. It’s about
going to the right places, or setting foot on the right tussocks: Sometimes we would walk out
into the rushes, where does the land end, where does the fjord begin? There was a sign in the
rushes marking where the property ended and the nature reserve began; between the land and
the sign was where you could pick straw for thatched roofs. The marl pits were there,
bottomless: Don’t venture out that way, don’t get close. The cows know where among the
rushes they can walk. The cows eat around the thistles, leaving behind little tufts. Everything
shrivels up in this weather.

5) The memories of a childhood and the memories of a place from that childhood are also
memories of the weather, are also memories of a climate: The weather can bounce back, for a
brief moment, but not the climate, not the weather over extended periods. A place is no longer
the same if everything that makes that place a place has changed: All novels begin with the
hero returning home and beginning to remember. In my generation, none of the novels can start
with the hero returning home and beginning to remember. No-one has a home anymore, all
places have changed in a way that is more irreversible. When it used to freeze over, little crusts
of ice would form between the tussocks of grass, trapping pockets of air beneath them and a
kind of marsh, glassy bodies of ice that you could stomp to pieces. This couldn’t be my
childhood home. A difference greater than any technological leap. The past is no longer a filter.
The sweet smell of the marsh beneath the icy crust, a bouquet of spring that lies in wait until
you shatter winter’s brittle mirror.

6) It wasn’t until 2008 that then Prime Minister Anders Fogh Rasmussen conceded that climate
change is manmade. And what action did he take after this epiphany? I don’t remember
anything happening. You might get the impression that the climate debate is something novel,
that it is only recently that we really became aware of climate change. We have known about
climate change for decades. I am only two years older than the Kyoto Protocol. In all these
years – and yes I am going to be more overtly political here than literature tends to be, I feel
that literature should be more overtly political than it tends to be – in all these years, just one
party has taken climate change seriously. Every single person who has voted for a party other
than the Red-Green Alliance over the past 30 years, I hold every one of you responsible. Every
single person who has voted for a party other than the Red-Green Alliance over the past 30
years, I hold every one of you responsible now and forever more. My friends, I hold you
responsible.

Erindringen er blevet taget fra mig af Hans-Peter Madsen

“i dag er der ingen der er bange. Sorgen/ har
allerede bredt sig”— Inger Christensen

“denne katastrofiserede affekt [...] Denne forudfølte
smerte [...] Formuleret med grammatiske begreber sørger
[de] i førfremtid”—Isak Winkel Holm

1) Den frosne jord her eller kornaksene om sommeren: det udpinte, som kan behandles kemisk,
som er blevet behandlet kemisk. Vandstanden. Furerne som usikker grund om vinteren, jord,
der nægter at lægge sig behageligt under en støvle, vrik-om-fælder. Men også skyerne, at gå
ud ad døren, rette blikket op: her, på samme tid, det lyserøde solnedgangsskær i venstre
yderkant af synsfeltet, i højre en byge på den anden side af fjorden, dette slør fra skyen og ned
over himlen, ned over horisonten, et styrtebad. Enhver tekst i tredje person er en udskamning.

2) Grus kan ikke knase om vinteren. Det er forkert at sige, at sne knirker, ikke fordi sne ikke
knirker, men fordi forfattere, der skriver det, har glemt, hvordan knirkende sne lyder. At samle
den mellem vanterne med et klap eller et pres, at samle den mellem de bare fingre. Er marken
furet eller stubbet? Jeg husker: en farve. Ikke nogen lugt, vinteren er den eneste årstid uden
lugte.

3) Det har ikke sneet i år. Det er sommer nu, det sneede ikke tidligere på året. Gæssene blev
her hele vinteren.

4) Sne i poesi er ikke koldt. Sne i poesi er ikke et fænomen, der opstår som følge af bestemte
vejrforhold i bestemte klimaer. Sne i poesi er noget, hvide duer sætter fodaftryk i. Jeg sætter
mig i sneen. Eller i græsplænens smat. Det handler om at gå de rigtige steder, sætte fødderne
på de rigtige tuer: Vi gik nogle gange udad i sivene, hvor endte marken, hvor begyndte fjorden?
Der stod et skilt i sivene, hvor grunden endte, og det fredede område begyndte, fra marken til
skiltet kunne man høste rør til stråtag. Mergelgrave var der, bundløse: Ikke gå ud i, ikke nærme
sig. Køerne ved, hvor i sivene de kan gå. Køerne spiser uden om tidsler, der står totter tilbage.
Alt er sjasket i det vejr.

5) Minderne om en barndom og minderne om en barndoms sted er også minderne om
vejrforhold, er også minderne om et klima: Vejret kan komme igen, kortvarigt, men ikke
klimaet, ikke vejret over længere stræk. Et sted er ikke længere det samme, hvis alt, der gør
stedet til sted, har ændret sig: Alle romaner begynder med, at jeget vender hjem og begynder
at erindre. I min generation kan ingen roman begynde med, at jeget vender hjem og begynder
at erindre. Ingen har længere et hjem, alle steder er forandret på en mere uigenkaldelig måde.
Når det frøs, dannede der sig små skorper af is mellem græstuerne, under dem var der luft og
så sump, glasagtige isskorper, som kunne trædes i stykker. Dette kunne ikke være mit
barndomshjem. En forskel større end en anden teknologi. Fortiden er ikke længere et filter.
Den sødlige sumplugt under isskorpen, en efterårslugt, der ligger og venter, når man knuser
vinterens skrøbelige spejl.

6) Først i 2008 erkendte daværende statsminister Anders Fogh Rasmussen, at
klimaforandringerne er menneskeskabte. Hvilken handling førte denne erkendelse til? Jeg
husker ingen handling. Man kan få indtryk af, at klima-debatten er noget nyt, at det er for nylig,
man for alvor er blevet bevidst om klimaforandringerne. Vi har kendt til klimaforandringerne
i årtier. Jeg er kun to år ældre end Kyoto-protokollen. I alle disse år, og nu bliver jeg mere
konkret politisk, end litteratur normalt gør, jeg mener, at litteraturen skal blive mere konkret
politisk, end den normalt gør, i alle disse år har kun ét parti taget klima-forandringerne
alvorligt. Enhver person, der de seneste 30 år har stemt på et andet parti end Enhedslisten,
holder jeg ansvarlig. Enhver person, der de seneste 30 år har stemt på et andet parti end
Enhedslisten, holder jeg -ansvarlig nu og i fremtiden. Mine venner, jeg holder jer ansvarlige.

Hans-Peter Madsen was born and raised in Jutland, Denmark, and has a degree in History of Literature. He works as an editor and translator, and has translated works into Danish by authors such as Louise May Alcott and John Polidori. This short story in The Dodge is taken from his debut collection Burn Down the House, Water the Tree (Brænd Huset Ned, Giv Træet Vand), published in Denmark in 2022 by Turbine Publishers.

Rob Myatt has been working as a translator since 2014, translating from German, Danish, Swedish, Norwegian, Russian and Polish into English. He was shortlisted for the John Dryden Translation Prize 2021 for his translation of Tretii Shar (The Third Balloon) by the eminent Kyrgyz author Kuseyin Esenkozhoev and has previously had translations published in Your Impossible Voice and Turkoslavia.

Published October 15 2023