A Moth to a Flame

by Stig Dagerman

  When she asks him his name, he tells her, but he doesn’t recognize it and is afraid he has said something wrong. He doesn’t recognize his address either. He turns his head and looks at her. Her glasses are glistening, and behind the lenses her eyes are glistening, too. When she asks him how this happened, he answers that he was trying to split wood with a knife.

  When the doctor comes in, he likes him immediately. While they are busy with his hand, he looks at it. Although he doesn’t recognize it, he is still interested in seeing it. And after the local anesthetic, it belongs to him even less. The thread is thick like a violin string. The doctor sticks it in and out of the foreign wrist. Finally, he snips off the protruding ends with a small pair of shiny scissors. He is weak and blissful – blissful even though he knows he is saved. Even afterward, his joy persists, the same joy as before. After all, dying and being saved arouse the same mild joy.

  As the nurse applies the bandage, the doctor stays put and stares at him. Suddenly, he says:

  Why were you splitting wood in the middle of the night?

  It was thirty-two below, he answers.

  The doctor pulls the lamp away, nearly leaving him in darkness. And from the darkness, he hears the low, familiar voice again.

  Why were you cutting wood with a razor? he asks.

  He’s unable to answer. But when he looks up from the darkness, he sees the doctor looking at his right hand.

  I burnt myself, he whispers, burnt myself on a candle.

  He climbs off the table by himself, and the nurse lifts his arm into a sling. When he reaches the door, he notices that the doctor has followed behind him. Just as he is about to walk out, he hears the doctor say, in a voice low enough so that only the two of them can hear:

  Avoid the fire.

  The door shuts behind him. He trudges down the hallway. The floor slants slightly. At the mouth of the hall, there is a waiting room with a table, chairs, and monthly newspapers. He sees them before they see him. No one is reading, even though they all have newspapers in their laps. As he gets closer, he realizes that he loves all three of them.

  They take a taxi home. He is immensely tired and immensely happy. They are all immensely tired. When they enter the building, he recognizes the smell at once. Even the smell of the apartment is the same: linoleum, food, and fabric. He even loves the smell.

  His room hasn’t changed. They help him to bed. The father undresses him and puts on his nightshirt. As the son lies in bed, the father strokes his hair.

  My boy, he says, you shouldn’t study so hard. You should rest for a while.

  Then the son strokes the father’s hair with his right hand. Gun comes and says good night from the doorway. One of her cheeks is red. He has an incredible urge to touch her. When the father leaves, she comes in, too, but just for a second. She doesn’t say a word; she only lets him caress her where it stings.

  Berit stays the longest, pulls up a chair, sits there, and watches him.

  You are not allowed to die, she whispers.

  She does not cry. Never again will she cry as she used to cry before. He lets her give him a long kiss because he does love her, too. She will sleep overnight in the kitchen. As she is about to leave, he asks her to take out the letter from his jacket pocket. Then he asks her to rip it to shreds.

  As he listens to her ripping it apart over his desk, he falls asleep. Deep and blissfully.

  A Torn-up Suicide Note

  You ask why. I will tell you why. It’s because I’m tired of living. Tired of living here in this world of little dogs, this dog world of measly emotions, measly pleasures, and measly thoughts. We’re supposed to be content, but I don’t want to be content. I don’t want to be satisfied like a little dog, because there’s nothing more loathsome than little dogs when they come home frightened and pleased from their little dog adventures. I myself have been a big dog. But I don’t want to be a big dog either. Even if it is better to be a big dog than a little one. So we have no other choice but to be either a big dog or a little dog.

  I’ve been a big dog because I have deceived all of you. But I’ve also been a little dog because I’ve deceived myself, too. We all deceive ourselves in the land of little dogs, and we can only dream of having little dog adventures. But all of us are afraid of the greatest adventure of all: to live purely. Little dogs have a panic-stricken fear of this one great adventure, because for them only truly filthy adventures are worth living for. In the land of little dogs, indecency is worse than immorality. But they fail to realize that only one thing is truly immoral: to consciously want to hurt someone. Therefore, in the land of little dogs, passive malice is more esteemed than active goodness.

  In the land of little dogs, we are all cheaters, and we do everything in fun. In fun, we feed all the little dogs with scraps of our emotions. In fun, we tell ourselves that we love every measly dog we meet. Therefore, no one can truly love in the land of the little dogs and nothing is genuine. Not even duplicity is real there. In the land of little dogs, even cheaters cheat at their own fixed game. And in the land of little dogs, you don’t need any faith. So no one has any. But if anyone does happen to have any faith, they only have it in jest, because everything is a joke in the land of little dogs.

  In the land of little dogs, the older dogs have nothing to say to the younger dogs. And if they did have something to say, they wouldn’t dare say it, because nobody believes in anything they say themselves. Not even their lies are truly mendacious. Because in the land of little dogs, the truthful ones tell lies and the liars tell the truth, so everything is always true and always false. Everything can be proven, thesis as well as antithesis. And we’d believe in both in the land of little dogs if only anyone dared to believe at all.

  No one is happy or unhappy in the land of little dogs. The prevailing pleasure is indifference, the only valid feelings are small ones, and the only thoughts are even smaller. And only the most insignificant of feelings are beautiful. In the land of little dogs, reason is never beautiful. In the land of little dogs, you can never understand that the only thing keeping the state of the little dogs from being completely unbearable is that the reason of the big dogs is able to analyze it.

  In the land of little dogs, everyone could live how they pleased if only anyone knew what they wanted. But in the land of the little dogs, no one believes in their aspirations, because everyone knows that they themselves are lying cheats. There’s only one wish in the land of little dogs, and that is to want to always be someone else. Everything is fluid in the land of little dogs, even stones. And the stone of dishonesty displaces the stone of honesty. There, even the masks wear masks. And to don yet another mask is called unmasking.

  The land of little dogs is a place where it’s considered shameful to live. And if it weren’t considered shameful to die, too, then several would prefer that as well. Besides, it’s even shameful to be ashamed in the land of little dogs.

  Only he who is not at home in the land of little dogs will be left to become a big dog. And the only advantage of being a big dog in a world of little dogs is that you are no longer afraid to die. But a big dog – least of all a big dog – cannot escape the shame of living either.

  This is why I’m doing what I’m doing.

  When the Desert Blooms

  You wake up happily, feel the wound aching mildly, and remember. You tug at the bandage and smile in the darkness at the unimaginable. It doesn’t hurt, and you are glad. You are brave, too, daring to turn on the light with your good hand. This time, you aren’t afraid when you look into your own eyes; there was never a time before when this didn’t frighten you. Your suicide note is on the desk, ripped to shreds. And when you turn out the light, the pieces continue to glow. You also manage to keep looking at yourself without becoming afraid. Brave and serene, you rest in the arms of the world. And little by little, you are infused with a warm certainty: you didn’t do it to die or to be saved either – but to have peace. Peace with everything inside of you that wanted to die, pea
ce with everything outside of you that pressured you to live. Otherwise, nothing has happened, nothing but some loss of blood and the fact that you have become a little older. You also understand that in order to begin to live, you must have already begun to die.

  The father comes in early, turns on the light, pulls a chair up to his bed – sitting down gently as one does at a sick person’s bedside – and says nothing. The son is awakened by his silence. He rouses gently and quietly. They look at each other in prolonged silence. At first, the silence is frigid but then it starts to thaw out. At first, they are both alone, alone as they have always been in each other’s company. The father sits there and plays with his yardstick: pulling it out, folding it up, measuring the loneliness and the silence. They hear Berit wake up in the kitchen, and the alarm clock rings in the other room.

  My boy, the father whispers.

  Then the unimaginable happens. A wave of warmth gushes through the room. The father drops his yardstick, holds the son’s unwounded hand in his, and brushes the hair from his forehead.

  My boy, he says once again.

  And those words contain everything – all questions, all answers, all affection, and all worries. They infect each other with their joy, and the warmth turns into heat. But the hotter it becomes, the deeper the silence becomes. Words can no longer express what they are feeling. Only their eyes and their hands, which are in a tranquil embrace. Before the father leaves, he tucks the son in, wrapping the blanket tightly around his body. He has always wanted to do that, longed to be allowed to do it, but never dared. Then he turns out the light and walks out.

  It’s twenty-two below, he whispers in the darkness.

  The yardstick clicks. The door closes. It’s only fifteen below, but he is overjoyed.

  When Berit sits down on his bed, he spreads the blanket over her lap. It makes her knees softer and even warms them up. She hasn’t slept much, and she had absurd dreams. She doesn’t ask him why. Nor does he tell her why. But a knot has come undone, so he asks her to retie it. As she ties it, he feels how cold her hands are, so he puts them underneath his blanket. They rest there like cold stones. Once they are warm, he pulls her up to him. Her body is tepid, like the masonry heater early in the morning.

  Poor Berit, he says.

  She starts to cry. It’s good for her to cry because the tears release her joy. She starts to warm up once she finished crying, bashfully caressing him as the heat returns to her.

  I’m going to buy some grapes for tonight, she whispers, a big cluster.

  Then she gently parts from him. He strokes her thighs, which are now softer than they have ever been before. He also fondles her breasts, and they swell up.

  Don’t be afraid, he whispers. And don’t be cold. It’s only five below outside. That’s what Papa said.

  It’s already light by the time Gun comes. The air is crisp and clear, and the window is covered with roses. It’s very warm underneath the blanket. She rests on his good arm, untroubled and unafraid. Her pink robe lies on the floor like a poor, broken soul. But they themselves are whole, and the brighter it becomes, the more whole they become – and more pure. Hour after hour passes in silence. They don’t speak much because there isn’t a lot to say. And whatever could be said, they already know. They know that they are mother and son, and they know it with open eyes. And they aren’t afraid of it, because we are never afraid of what we truly know. We are only afraid before we know it. But to know for certain costs us dearly. It costs us blood and tears, but it’s worth the price.

  To know also hurts. Her cheek still stings from the lashing, but the pain is strangely sweet. She knows that it has to be so. It has to hurt to gain a son. She tenderly strokes his aching wrist. Then he dares to caress her cheek, and she finds the courage to describe her joy – and her loneliness. She is bold enough to explain about the cold, lonely mornings when he isn’t there. About the tepid heater, the cold bed, the frost on the windowpanes, and the snow that whirls down from the rooftops to the frozen cars below, about the room that peers at her with cold eyes, about all the things she refuses to touch because they belong to someone else, about her fear of the telephone and the receiver that always seems to be warm from someone else’s ear, about the vase she smashed against the wall to be rid of its owner, and about the opera glasses she stole from the bookcase and used every night to peer down at the street and make people look big so that they would be closer to her and she would be less alone. She also explains about the husband, the cold husband, whose laughter is a frozen cry and who thinks that to comfort her means to grow cold. Regarding the furniture, he appeased her, saying that it cost nine hundred kronor in 1929. Soon, he would reassure her about the apartment, too, telling her that the rent happens to be the most affordable in the city. Then he would reassure her that that which is dead is dead. Lastly, she speaks of her own coldness, of life’s great white icebox – she herself is twenty-two below. And of her yearning for something else. It writhes inside her like an imprisoned snake – which may be squirming inside us all.

  Mama, he whispers, embracing her like a son.

  Then their heat erupts. Their white desert begins to thaw. And look, the desert is blooming. Their desert is precious to them, and though they love each other very much, they mostly love their desert. They are not happier than before, not better either, but they are a lot less foolish. Warm and wise, they lie and look up at the white ceiling, the neighbor’s floor, on top of which a sick child is dancing. Wise, because wisdom is to be in love with life, whereas foolishness is to be ashamed of love.

  They are not only wise but silent, too, because our landscape is suffused with silence after a volcanic eruption. A moment ago, there was fire. Now the tepid ashes warm our feet. A moment ago, there was blinding light. But now a blessed twilight cools our eyes. Everything is calm again. The volcano is slumbering. Even our poor nerves are slumbering. We are not happy, but we feel momentary peace. We have just witnessed our life’s desert in all its terrifying grandeur, and now the desert is blooming. The oases are few and far between, but they do exist. And although the desert is vast, we know that the greatest deserts hold the most oases. But to discover this, we have to pay dearly. The price is a volcanic eruption. Costly, but nothing less destructive exists. Therefore, we ought to bless the volcanoes, thank them because their light is dazzling and their fire is scorching. Thank them for blinding us, because only when we are blind can we gain our full sight. And thank them for burning us, because only as burnt children can we give others our warmth.

  But the moments of peace are fleeting. All other moments are significantly longer. Understanding this is also wisdom. But because they are so short, we must live in these moments as if it were only then that we lived. They understand this, too.

  Therefore, they do not answer when Berit calls.

  They will not answer when Knut calls either.

  And when the aunts call, they will let it ring.

  THE BEGINNING

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  First published in Swedish as Bränt barn by Norstedts, Sweden, 1948

  First published in English as A Burnt Child by William Morrow and Company, 1950

  First published in this translation in the United States of America by The University of Minnesota Press 2013

>   Published with a new introduction in Penguin Books 2019

  Copyright © Stig Dagerman, 1948

  Translation © Regents of The University of Minnesota, 2013

  Introduction copyright © Siri Hustvedt, 2019

  The moral right of the copyright holders has been asserted

  Cover image © Claude Jacoby/Ullstein Bild via Getty Images

  ISBN: 978-0-241-40074-6

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