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Why Norway is the best place in the world to be a writer

The Norwegian government keeps book publishers alive.

Travel to Norway and one thing strikes you right away: The country is really small. At about 5 million, its population is the size of Alabama’s. So selling a half-million copies of erudite books there, as Karl Ove Knausgaard has, is even more remarkable than it sounds. This is a tough one to fact-check, but I would estimate that on a per capita basis, his autobiographical series, My Struggle, has already sold about as well in Norway as The Great Gatsby has sold in America all time.

Norway's size contributed to the controversy surrounding My Struggle, and in turn its success. As several people told me when I went there to profile Knausgaard for The New Republic, everyone knows someone who knows someone who is a “character” in the books, usually identified by real name. Cathrine Sandnes, a magazine editor quoted in my article, told me she knows 20 or 30 people who appear in the book, as she does herself.

But there's another way in which Norway itself helps to explain the Knausgaard phenomenon: The country is one of the most enviable places in the world to be a writer or a publisher. Here’s why:

  • It’s become one of the world’s richest nations, owing to the oil boom that took hold in the '70s. Norway’s sovereign wealth fund is ranked number one in the world. And as a friend who works in the oil business and writes about it pointed out to me, it’s also one of the few “petrostates” that does not suffer from the “resource curse” – it is not plagued by corruption and/or a repressive regime. On the train from Oslo to Kristiansand, I met a shipbuilder for a company that services the offshore oil platforms, and he said, “We won the lottery in this country. We went from this [universal gesture of reeling in a fish] to this [universal gesture of rubbing cash between the fingers].” (The shipbuilder, a navy veteran, was holding a copy of Game of Thrones. He had already read Knausgaard, of course.) The UN Human Development Index, a measure of standard of living, pegs Norway at number one. Unfortunately for visitors, the cost of living is also extraordinary. Norway’s cities are 40–50 per cent more expensive than New York City. In a shop I saw a single can of soda selling for $6.
  • All public universities are essentially free to attend.
  • This seems like it cannot quite be true, but according to the CIA World Factbook, the adult literacy rate in Norway is 100 per cent.
  • With the combination of oil wealth and a robust Scandinavian state, government funding of culture is substantial. I spoke to a book critic named Trond Haugen at his workplace, the National Library of Norway, in Oslo. (I asked him to estimate how many of the 80 or so people in the public library’s cafeteria would have heard of Knausgaard, and he laughed: “Oh, 100 per cent.”) All published material in Norway is required by law to be deposited in the the National Library, and the library is currently digitizing everything in its collection. Everyone in the country will be able to view the material free online; for books under copyright, the patron will be able to access the text but not download it.
  • So long as a new Norwegian book passes quality control, Arts Council Norway purchases 1,000 copies of it to distribute to libraries – or 1,550 copies if it’s a children’s book. (This comes on top of the libraries’ acquisition budgets.) The purchasing scheme, I was told, keeps alive many small publishers that could not otherwise exist. American independent presses would drool at the prospect. Another effect of the scheme is that it subsidises writers as they build a career. They make royalties on those 1,000 copies – in fact, at a better royalty rate than the contractual standard. Books are also exempted from Norway’s value-added tax.
  • Some of these arts programs have been under threat since a more conservative government came into power last year. “Conservative” is relative, however. Norway has some of the world’s best-paid manual laborers and worst-paid CEOs, as a Norwegian executive told The Economist.
  • By business agreement, deep discounting of new books is essentially banned, as is the case in a number of European countries. This protects booksellers from the likes of Amazon, and it also means that the profits from blockbuster titles, which would otherwise be the most heavily discounted, subsidize all other books to an even greater degree than they do here. You could say that Knausgaard has kept a lot of writers in business.
  • The leading bookstore chains in Norway are owned by the major publishing companies. Some prominent industry figures in the US, such as Andrew Wylie and Mike Shatzkin, have recently suggested that the big publishers here, particularly Penguin Random House, ought to follow suit and get into the bookselling game. (Others in the business have noted that American publishers have tried this in the past without great success.)
  • Along with the purchasing scheme, the country lends significant support to writers and other artists directly. Renowned artists receive a guaranteed income, generally until retirement, and others are eligible for one- to five-year work grants. All this helps secure a place for Norway in world literature – a considerable challenge when your language is read by so few people. The pool of potential buyers for any given book is small, so publishers have to charge a high price for each copy to cover their costs, and that can further limit sales. It is possible that a writer like Knausgaard would have quit before writing My Struggle if he had to survive solely on the Norwegian market’s demand for literary fiction.
  • One downside for Norwegian readers: the small market and the substantial cost of translation mean that many great works are not available in Norwegian. This is a source of frustration for Knausgaard. To satisfy his interest in Rimbaud, a Frenchman, he owns a copy of a biography that was published in English in the US. By necessity he also reads books in English that were written in a third language. Knausgaard’s English is excellent, but still, it’s a problem. It’s sort of like looking at a photocopy of a photocopy of a photograph.
  • It is also the case that many highly regarded Norwegian books are not available in America, where translated books have a shamefully hard time breaking through. Knausgaard’s debut novel, Out of the World, is still not available in English. Someone should rectify that. If I could read Norwegian, I would also be reading Knausgaard’s friend Geir Angell Øygarden’s Bagdad Indigo. It’s an account of wartime Iraq reported largely among “human shield” activists, in dangerous conditions. If you have read about Angell Øygarden in My Struggle or in my profile, you might appreciate that his working title was Against Better Judgment. “This could also serve as his motto in life,” Knausgaard writes of him in Book Six of My Struggle.
  • Partly to introduce more foreign works to Norway, Knausgaard has co-founded a small press, based in Norway, called Pelikanen. His brother, Yngve, designs the covers. Much of what they publish is translated. Among American writers, they have published Katie Kitamura and they plan to bring out Ben Marcus as well as Charles Jackson’s classic, The Lost Weekend.
  • Knausgaard said he has always thought of My Struggle as a novel, and it is billed as a novel on the Norwegian editions. We spoke about what makes it a novel and not a memoir, since most names are authentic and he corrected “errors” in his account. (The American hardcover publisher, Archipelago Books, chose not to label it one way or the other.) Among his several responses, he said that Norway has no real tradition of memoir as an art form, as distinct from autobiographies by public figures. He also said he was never asked the kind of question I was asking until the books were published in English.

Evan Hughes is the author of Literary Brooklyn.

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No, J J Abrams – Star Wars was never “a boy’s thing”

Women love things that are “for boys” because these things are actually “for humans”.

In 1977, millions of people went to cinemas to see Star Wars: A New Hope, and afterwards, a good portion of them were suddenly rendered invisible. It didn’t matter that they rushed to line up for the sequels; it didn’t matter that they were eager to buy and play with the toys; it didn’t matter that they grew up to read the novels and explore the expanded universe and sit through the prequels and introduce their children to something they had loved as a child. They’re a group that overlaps with the invisible force that haunts comic book shops, or plays a lot of video games, or makes up nearly half the audience for superhero films, or, to one New Statesman staffer’s persistent, possibly-only-half joking incredulity, liked Doctor Who long before Russell T Davies got his hands on it. 

With less than three weeks before J J Abrams’s rebooted Star Wars hits screens, the director went on Good Morning America yesterday to talk in vague, broad strokes about his turn with the franchise. But the otherwise-unremarkable interview made headlines because of one segment, when Abrams was asked who he most excited to hear from about the film. He said:

“Star Wars was always about, you was always a boy’s thing, and a movie that dads take their sons to. And though that’s still very much the case, I was really hoping that this could be a movie that mothers can take their daughters to as well. So I’m looking forward to kids seeing this movie and to seeing themselves in it, and seeing that they’re capable of doing what they could never imagine was possible.”

That invisible group of Star Wars fans, who love that well-known “boy’s thing”? Women, who have spent the past four decades loving the franchise just as much as all those fanboys, even if no one else – the fanboys themselves in particular – seemed to take much notice. Abrams’s offhand remark coincided with recent headlines like Bloomberg’s “‘Star Wars’ Toys Aren’t Just For Boys Anymore as Rey Takes Over”, a reference to the female lead of The Force Awakens, portrayed by Daisy Ridley. Across the web, aside from stirrings by the now-mandatory Internet Outrage Machine, the overwhelming response seemed to be one of sad and somewhat resigned frustration, with women sharing memories of falling in love with the series, essentially saying, “We’ve been here this whole time.” My friend Lori Morimoto, in “An Open Letter to J J Abrams”, wrote, “I’d like to tell you the story of a girl who became a Star Wars fan. I hope you can suspend disbelief over my existence long enough to make it to the end.”

Star Wars is a universe populated by complicated gender politics, on and off screen. The three original films fail most facets of the Bechdel test (I laughed out loud here seeing the suggestion that A New Hope deserves a pass because the only two named female characters could have talked offscreen). Princess Leia’s enslavement and escape (and the bikini she wears while doing it) is a cultural touchstone that’s launched a complicated feminist dialogue over the decades. And it is perhaps because of the mostly-male cast in the films – and the long-held assumption that science fiction is a primarily masculine property – that the franchise has long been marketed exclusively to boys, despite the massive and loyal female audience.

But the modern Star Wars empire is helmed a woman, Lucasfilm president Kathleen Kennedy, and when she revealed that two-thirds the story team behind the newest film was female, she also pledged that there would be a woman in the director’s chair before too long. And since one of the leads in The Force Awakens is a woman, her character, along with a black male lead – portrayed by John Boyega – sparked anger from the reactionary white guy corner of the internet in recent months (sorry that the SJWs ruined your movies, guys!). For films that once portrayed a place so alien that only white men were allowed to speak to each other, the widening of representation in this reboot apparently looks to some like a political – or, to them, a politically correct – act.

The welcome diversity of the leading cast highlights all the good intentions in Abrams’s statement: that this new film promises more than a panoply of white guys, that girls and people of colour can see themselves reflected back in these new heroes. All the girls who thought the movies weren’t for them because they only saw men onscreen, or the endless line of male action figures on the shelf, have a point of entry now – that’s what representation means. And that’s certainly worth cheering for, even if it only took us 40 years to get there. But it’s hard for all the people who aren’t white men who’ve found other points of entry over the years, who managed to love it without seeing themselves there. I can speak from personal experience when I say that a lifetime of media about white guys hasn’t stopped me from finding characters and stories to fall in love with.

Here’s a theory: you might not have noticed that you were surrounded by female Star Wars fans all these years because you were the one who rendered them invisible. Women who like things such as Star Wars, or comics, or anything else that leads journalists to write those painful “not just for boys anymore” trend stories, have had to take it from all sides. Enthusiasm for something seen as the province of men clashes with mainstream perceptions of femininity. Even women liking this stuff in the context of traditionally feminised fan spaces, like fanfiction, find themselves fending off assumptions from men and women alike, perhaps the accusation that they are sexualising something too much, or they are placing too much weight on the emotional elements of a storyline. Basically, that they’re liking the thing the wrong way.

But women’s enthusiasm for perceived “male” spaces is always liking the thing the wrong way. The plainest illustration of this is the Fake Geek Girl, in meme and in practice: the barriers to entry are raised immeasurably high when women try to join in many male-dominated fannish conversations. The wonderful Noelle Stevenson illustrates this beautifully – and then literally, when a guy challenges her on her work. I’m sure that just by writing about Star Wars, I’m opening myself up to the angry gatekeeping-style pissing contests that men like to toss at women who claim to like the things they like. (Let’s get it all out in the open here: Star Wars isn’t my fandom. I saw the three original films on dates with my first boyfriend – our first date: Star Trek: First Contact, because we were clearly the coolest kids in town – and upon rewatches as an adult nothing grabbed me. But I am also a fandom journalist, so that’s kind of how this works.)

There’s a persistent myth – and I say persistent because I keep seeing these deluded boys get mad in new viral posts – that women who claim to like geeky things are just pretending, the somewhat confusing notion that they are doing it for attention. (And then there’s the inevitable anger that in this supposedly desperate plea for attention – why else would a woman claim to like their beloved characters?! – these women still don’t want to sleep with them.) And what never seems to occur to any of these gatekeepers is that these women were there all along, liking these things just as much – and are finally being given the cultural space to be open about their interests and passions. But that space is given haltingly; plenty of women, tired of waiting, are going out and taking it. The result is the tension (and, at times, outright hostility) that has marked certain corners of the fannish world in the past few years.

Women love things that are “for boys” because these things are actually “for humans”. There are many reasons that people love Star Wars, and most of them are universal things: the themes, the characters, the archetypal struggle of good versus evil. Most of the time we default to the white guy; he struggles with things we all struggle with, but somehow, he is deemed most relatable. Abrams, Kennedy, and everyone behind the new films should be applauded for their efforts to give non-white guys a turn at the universal story – I think these are incredibly valuable choices, and certainly will make the films vastly more accessible, particularly to children.

But we don’t just need Rey on screen and Rey dolls on the shelves for mothers and daughters – those same mothers and daughters have found plenty to love without many women to look to on their screens. We need boys to love the female heroes as much as we’ve loved the men over the years: we need universal to be truly universal. And when we express that love, the default reaction shouldn’t be a challenge: not, “You don’t like this thing as much as I do,” or, “You don’t love this the right way.” Isn’t it easier to say, “Oh, I’m so glad that you love this, too!”

Elizabeth Minkel is a staff writer for The Millions, and writes a regular column on fan culture for the New Statesman. She is on Twitter @ElizabethMinkel.