by Dag Solstad
It was also a big leap from mathematics and the heaven-defying formulas of theoretical physics to the way these students related to the human phenomenon that had, after all, developed these mathematical symbols, which now made it possible to hurl man-made objects into outer space, according to a specified plan. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that they had great difficulty focusing for any lengthy period of time, and with a certain degree of concentration, on human topics such as art and literature, history and psychology. They spoke for the most part in generalities. They actually took pleasure in spouting readily accepted opinions, which represented for them a way of expressing themselves in a relevant and healthy manner. They claimed something was sensible if the whole point was for them to view it as sensible; they regarded something as amusing if they were supposed to view it as amusing; and they allowed themselves to become thoroughly indignant if they were meant to become indignant, and their anger was unflinchingly genuine. Similarly, they allowed themselves to be moved by all the phenomena they read about, if they were supposed to be moved by them. Yet fierce disagreement would occasionally arise at the table when human phenomena came under discussion. Then two readily acceptable opinions might clash, and such a conversation would frequently devolve into nothing more than squabbling, since one person would become so enamored of his own readily acceptable opinion that he would do his utmost to skewer someone else’s readily acceptable opinion, for which he ultimately developed such scorn that he could label it immoral or logically reprehensible.
When the group openly discussed themselves or others at the table, this same perspective held true. They found a great, identifiable joy in the fact that each person behaved exactly as they had predicted he would. For example, whenever Andersen left the table without removing the tray with his dirty plate, cutlery, and coffee cup, the others would yell at him to come back and get it.
“Typical Andersen,” they’d say afterward, almost elated that once again Andersen had behaved in such a typical Andersen manner, as only Andersen could do. And by “typical Andersen,” they didn’t mean merely that he had once again left the table without taking his tray to the clearing area; no, they meant that the way Andersen was behaving at this moment caused them to recognize him from similar situations that had occurred in other places and in completely different contexts, entitling them to call out “typical Andersen,” even though this might actually have been the first time Andersen had forgotten his tray when he got up and left the table. And the merriment that was evident in their voices when they looked at each other and exclaimed “typical Andersen” also revealed the joy they derived from reaching such conclusions about Andersen, especially if it was the first time he had forgotten his tray of dirty dishes, because then they knew, and in a most convincing manner, that when Andersen forgot to remove his tray, it was not mere coincidence but rather an incident which, based on what Andersen had previously done in the seminar rooms, the laboratory, the gymnasium, and at the chessboard, represented typical behavior on his part, and for them it was a great joy to recognize this behavior and this person named Andersen in a new situation. This is Andersen, and we take great pleasure in recognizing him again. In other words, there was no small amount of warmth and generosity in their passion for these types of characterizations. Because the joy of recognition eclipses and mutes the criticism that necessarily arises when a man shirks his duty to carry his tray of dirty dishes to the clearing area. This was reinforced when recognition of the typical no longer concerned typical behavior but instead had to do with psychology. Because subsequently, after Andersen forgot to remove his tray and was called back to the table, he picked up the tray and gave a disarming shrug, and this too was “typical Andersen,” because they had often noticed him do this whenever he was caught out, had suffered a loss, made a mistake, or was guilty of some misunderstanding. On those occasions he would play the innocent, smooth things over, or else, like now, he would give a disarming shrug in order to trivialize or diminish, or if possible even cover up, the whole matter. Recognizing this psychological trait in its various guises as “typical Andersen” always aroused greater joy than the criticism or aloofness, which discovery of the mistake, loss, neglect, or misunderstanding deserved, and thus you might say there was something unflinchingly tolerant about their view of their fellow human beings. Various qualities such as “greed,” “quarrelsomeness,” “avarice,” “obstinacy,” and “arrogance” were all censured and yet accepted with an underlying warmth when noted as “typical Andersen,” “typical Hans Brun,” “typical Per Arne Pedersen,” “typical Ingebrigtsen,” “typical Paulsen,” “typical Jan Brosten,” and for that matter even “typical Buer.” By this they meant they possessed a system of concepts that was sufficient to reference the personal traits of those with whom they were in daily contact. The problem for them was to connect Andersen’s existence with the actual person named Andersen, whom they could see but who was not identical with his existence. Andersen’s existence was a mystery that was linked to the person Andersen and his way of being, and yet not identical with it. The person himself was clear enough. Look, here comes Andersen in his own tall manifestation, six feet two inches above sea level, 150 pounds, a real beanpole, carrying his tray as he heads over to their table. Look boys, here comes Andersen! He was easy to spot; they recognized him from a distance of over one hundred sixty feet, looming above a forest of other people. But how were they supposed to connect Andersen-ness to this person named Andersen coming toward them? Andersen was more than the person Andersen, with his stooping posture, his neighing laugh, and his fogged-up glasses; this Andersen-ness, which they immediately perceived as attached to the person Andersen, as something that followed Andersen the person like a vague shadow, like his personality, was what they tried to capture, calling it “typical Andersen.”
But what was their own attitude on being called “typical Paulsen,” “typical Ingebrigtsen,” “typical Jan Brosten,” even “typical Buer” for that matter? All indications are that they accepted the fact that others used the concept of “typical” when referring to them. Even Paul Buer accepted it, although it wasn’t something he liked to think about. And by the way, it’s doubtful that any of the others spent much time considering the obvious likelihood that since they so spontaneously had exclaimed “typical Andersen” whenever Andersen behaved in accordance with his personality, it meant the others, including Andersen, would also exclaim “typical Jan Brosten” behind their backs whenever they showed off their own personalities. This is the sort of thing that most people choose to dismiss if it should happen to impinge on their consciousness. But it wasn’t only behind their backs that “typical Paulsen,” etc., was said. It was also put to them directly, taking the form of confrontation, but also now, as in the case of Andersen, with an underlying friendliness in the voice. To have thrown in your face a phrase like: “how typical of you, Buer,” was something you just had to endure. Plain and simple. Even though very few people liked it. But for the most part you played along with the notion, for a brief time involuntarily taking some sort of central role; you good-naturedly put up with it, having been supposedly caught revealing your true personality. Occasionally someone might protest and deny what was deemed “typical” about him. This might occur because he found the characterization extremely unfair or exaggerated, and for a moment he would lose his composure at once again being confronted with such a label. Yet the person then risked hearing phrases such as: “typical of you, Paulsen, to deny what everyone else sees,” or “typical of you, Paulsen, to complain,” causing you to try to counter any wearisome repetitions of highly unjust or exaggerated characterizations of yourself with great calm. At other times the superficial nature of such characterizations could get on your nerves, and you might be tempted to display fierce annoyance at this way of repeatedly confronting you with a diminished view of yourself. But usually you kept quiet and good-naturedly played along with this superficial diminishing of the “I
” that you experienced from the inside. In spite of everything, this was an attempt by the others to pigeonhole you, a type of deep delving into your very existence, and hence this exaggerated one-sidedness and superficiality functioned as a means of protecting your own “I,” your true “I,” which had absolutely no wish to be exposed to the spotlight. Use of “typical,” as applied to yourself, and not just to the others, protected the sense of reserve which, through all the noise and commotion, was a fundamental trait shared by this group of science students, a contributing factor which lent their personalities such a strong aura of anonymity.
Both the person who said “typical Andersen,” “typical Pedersen,” as well as the one who was singled out as “typical Andersen,” “typical Pedersen,” had a mutual interest in limiting the understanding of the human phenomenon in such things that could be expressed as “typical Andersen” and “typical Pedersen.” They had no interest in those who shirked such classifications. Naked existence, as it may manifest in various grimaces, twitches, mutterings, and stammerings, was of no interest to them. Not even in the form of caricatures, which they then called harassment and was taboo at their table. Nor were they interested in naked existence as it manifests in reflection or self-reflection. They were solely preoccupied with the capacity of their friends to be recognized as “typical,” which they viewed as what was particularly personal and unique about them.
For that reason, no one shouted “typical Paulsen” when a bomb was dropped at their table. He had been absent for a long time, and the others had begun to wonder what had happened. No one knew where he was, whether he’d fallen ill, had gone away, or any of the other possibilities that might have occurred to Paulsen. Until one day when Ingebrigtsen told them that he’d talked to someone from Paulsen’s hometown, and this person said that Paulsen had returned home and was now working in an office there. The truth was that Paulsen, during the course of the three years he’d spent studying the sciences, had not taken a single exam, while acquiring a student debt as large as that acquired by those who had faithfully and regularly taken their exams. Finally, it had to stop. Paulsen’s father had found out what was going on, and he immediately came to Oslo to bring his failed and indebted son back home, where he got him an office job so that he could start to pay off his student loans.
This horrified the others. Paulsen’s empty chair screamed at them, and they shook their heads and lamented his fate. They could vividly imagine how it was to attend the university in Blindern day in and day out, pretending to be a student when in reality you were doing nothing at all.
“He must have been miserable,” said Hans Brun, and everyone nodded as they recalled with horror the lively Paulsen who had spread such merriment around their table.
“But he has to take responsibility,” added Jan Brosten, and to that they all nodded with knowing looks.
Why hadn’t he said anything to them? Instead he had pretended that his studies were going fine, and none of them had actually checked to see if his name was on the exam lists which announced who had passed on those occasions when he claimed to have taken an exam.
“Passed, somewhere in the middle, and slightly toward the bottom,” was what Paulsen had said whenever they asked him how a specific exam had gone.
“He must have suffered from exam anxiety,” Jan Brosten decided, in his defense. But if so, why hadn’t he consulted a psychologist, who could have cured his nerves? “If he’d asked me, that’s the advice I would have given him,” said Brosten. “Instead of going around wasting time for years,” he added indignantly.
They had a hard time knowing how to take the news about Paulsen. There was something so awkward about it. He had presented himself as something other than he was, and that was how he’d gained access to their table, as one of them. He had made himself out to be an ordinary student of the sciences, when in reality he was a good-for-nothing because he was plagued by anxiety. And he’d sat at their table. And entertained them with his witty remarks. There was something intolerable about that, when they thought back on it. Yet at the same time they couldn’t stop thinking about it. The whole episode was too upsetting, too distressing to be simply forgotten. Especially to be dismissed for good. At least that was the opinion of Gunnar Ingebrigtsen and Andersen, for example. So they made sure that Paulsen was remembered. First they recalled all his excellent comments, and Andersen, in particular, could remember many of them, which he now eagerly recounted, also those which everyone remembered as having annoyed Hans Brun, but now they were repeated with a double sense of irony, striking back at Paulsen, who was now perceived as the object of ridicule. And Ingebrigtsen became an expert at recounting the horror-inducing story about how Paulsen was unmasked. At first only through partial hints conveyed to the others seated at the table next to the wall on this particular side of Frederikke, but later telling the whole story to newcomers in their group and to students who just happened to sit down at their table. Ingebrigtsen’s account got funnier and funnier, and more and more farcical, as he embroidered his description of how Paulsen kept wondering whether he would ever dare to take the first midterm in elementary mathematics in the fall. Ingebrigtsen’s mimicry and gestures seemed priceless to his audience, especially the part of his story dealing with the arrival in Oslo of the sinister father, bent on fetching home his indebted son. At that point the original group, the newcomers, and any chance guests would all howl with laughter. But not everyone in the group laughed with equal heartiness. Hans Brun, for instance, might get mildly annoyed and interrupt Ingebrigtsen or the sneering Andersen as the latter recounted one of Paulsen’s earlier remarks.
“Give Paulsen a rest,” he might say.
Jan Brosten personally didn’t like hearing about Paulsen either, at least not over and over, but he didn’t say anything. Now and then Paul Buer might see him smile, and even on rare occasions laugh with abandon, but on the whole Paul noticed that Jan personally didn’t care to hear the Paulsen stories.
Nor did Paul Buer like being reminded of Tor Erik Paulsen, but for him there was an additional reason. He felt a little stab of guilt whenever he heard the stories, and that was because he didn’t really miss Paulsen. It was thanks to Paulsen that he had been admitted to this circle of science students. Yet even though Tor Erik Paulsen was the one who had introduced him to the others as a friend of his, Paul had never developed a close relationship with him; he had merely allowed himself to be ushered over to this table because, to be honest, he knew hardly anyone. Later he felt closer to many others than he did to Paulsen, and by the time Paulsen was unmasked, he had actually become close friends with Jan Brosten.
Brosten was the genius of the group. They called him “A- Brosten” when he wasn’t within earshot. The “A-” stood for the grade (1.1) that he usually received whenever he took an exam; and the two ones also symbolized the fact that he was number one at whatever he tried his hand, from the board game couronne to track and field events. He was the national champion in the 400-meter hurdles and also good at the 400-meter dash. As a university student he was in the process of completing his thesis in theoretical physics, and he’d been chosen to be a part-time teaching assistant for a renowned professor in the field, and of course a brilliant future was predicted for him, provided he didn’t decide to switch fields and focus instead on astrophysics, which was something he occasionally hinted at doing. At that time our students, as well as our athletes, were frequently dubbed the flower of Norway’s youth, and thus there is no reason why this double-flower shouldn’t be presented as the flower of Norwegian youth here as well.
After a track and field meet or a national championship, it was especially nice for Norway’s champion in the 400-meter hurdles to sit at the table with completely ordinary students, laughing at the jokes that were so diligently told, and shooting the breeze with that serious, almost indifferent expression of his. Many people thought Jan Brosten lived a totally different life outside this circle of friends
, which was assumed to be merely peripheral to his real life. It was thought that he had an exciting life within the world of track and field, with championship banquets and admiring women inviting him to dance, or that he was constantly being invited to parties with younger intellectuals where conversations blazed and Jan was finally allowed to blossom. This was also the understanding among the group at the table. But it turned out not to be the case. This was his social life. This was his circle of acquaintances, it was around this table that he found his friends, and one of his best friends was the ordinary science student Paul Buer, whose friendship, symptomatically enough, began when Brosten helped Paul with a tricky math problem, enabling him to see the solution in all its clarity.
Jan Brosten did not put on airs. After his victory at the national championships in the 400-meter hurdles (a one-time occurrence), with some embarrassment he allowed the others at Blindern to congratulate him the next day, on a Monday, but he managed to stop one of them — it was Paulsen (before Paulsen was unmasked) — from getting everyone to sing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Otherwise he enjoyed amusements and he was quick to laugh heartily at all sorts of jokes, perhaps especially at gags about mix-ups, but he wasn’t good at telling jokes himself, or at least Paul Buer never heard him tell one. But Jan might, for instance, urge Ingebrigtsen (or Paulsen) to tell the one about the girl who didn’t know, etc., etc. He didn’t really say much, it was mostly small talk and brief remarks, usually about the weather, about the fact that Skeid had won the soccer match and Lightning had lost, and that today was Monday again. But when on rare occasion he did offer an opinion during a discussion, the others listened, because what he said was so well-conceived, so crystal clear, that it was impossible to contradict him. Yet his words were mere generalities. Readily accepted opinions. For instance, that it’s healthy for democracy when the conservatives and the socialists take turns holding power. That it was healthy for the party that had previously been in power and lost it, and for the party which had previously been the opposition but now took the reins of government. Democracy would crumble if government didn’t change hands occasionally, in accordance with democratic elections. This sounded so convincingly sensible that the students who had voted conservative in the election realized they shouldn’t be cheering too loudly, because the election results were first and foremost a victory for democracy, and that wasn’t something to gloat about. Or vice versa (depending on the actual election results).