Postcard from Stockholm

Jonas Hassen Khemiri shares his hometown

I am told by almanacs that it is not yet fall—but everything in my being is prepared to argue with that assertion. I’m writing this wearing a sweater and the temperatures in Austin, Texas have fallen to 80 degrees. Children are in school, and pumpkins are piled in crates outside our supermarket. In general I very much believe that more people, particularly in the United States, need to acknowledge facts. But when it comes to the changing of the seasons, I apparently reject science in favor of vibe.

Part of feeling a sense of autumn is experiencing a sudden desire to return to favorite, classic books: the authors who feel like old friends. It’s in the fall that I reread Laurie Colwin and Zadie Smith, Louisa May Alcott and Jane Austen, and enjoy them all exactly as much as I did upon my first encounters. There’s something comfortable about the fall that allows for melancholy and reflection—I’m never more aware of the passage of time, for better and for worse. In summer, I want my reading to feel like a thrilling adventure. In fall, I want an embrace.

Hence my selection for this week, Jonas Hassen Khemiri’s “Postcard from Stockholm.” Khemiri’s piece, featured in our Scandinavia guide, is a short, bittersweet tour of his hometown through its bookstores and literary legacies. It’s a piece written for those of us who mark significant moments by what we were reading at the time.

Finally a short housekeeping note: Thanks for your patience while I took a couple weeks off from Sunday Reading. We are working on some new initiatives and hope to have a few fun announcements in the coming weeks. As always thank you for your support. We can’t do this work without you!

—Abby Rapoport

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Photo: Thomas D Mørkeberg, Stockholm subway art, 2015. Flickr, Creative Commons.

“Postcard from Stockholm,” Jonas Hassen Khemiri. Stranger’s Guide: Scandinavia.

Dearest A,

Yes. I’m still based in Stockholm, my hometown, this weird tiny big city that I love to hate. When you come here, we should go sightseeing.

First—I will take you downtown. To the city center. Where the people are pink, the anuses bleached, the dogs perfumed and the wallets thick. Here everyone is a millionaire. But in the midst of all this prosperity there is a safe haven: Yes. It’s a library. Of course. But not any library. It’s Kungliga Biblioteket, the National Library. I love this place because you can sit here and write. For free. Forever. Let’s go in. Let’s have lunch in the crummy cafeteria. Let’s write for a few hours. If you need inspiration, just think about the fact that underneath us there is a giant storage space, stretching 40 meters (130 feet) underground. We are literally sitting on top of Sweden’s collective memory, because if you publish something in more than 30 copies, you are required by Swedish law to send a copy here, no matter if it’s a dissertation, a local newspaper or a porn magazine.

Then, I suggest we do some shopping. Let’s head over to Stockholm’s best store. No, it’s not an H&M. Not an IKEA. This place is called Rönnells. They have sold books since the beginning of time. The shelves are caving, the smell is dusty, their tagline on Instagram is: Keep the boat sinking! This is where we find first edition books from amazing contemporary writers like Sara Stridsberg, Athena Farrokhzad, Pär Thörn and the legendary PO Enquist. As we stroll the aisles, letting our fingers touch the books we love, the books we hate, the books we said we loved but never read, the books we claimed to hate just because we wanted so badly to have written them, I tell you about the recent marathon reading they arranged here. Contemporary poet Johan Jönsson was invited to read his last three poetry collections, from beginning to end. Three thousand eight hundred and thirty pages of intense poetry, read for five days straight, eight hours per day, by a poet with an increasingly hoarse voice.

After a few hours, we leave the bookstore and get on the subway to go south. Don’t worry about the silence. We Swedes don’t talk to each other in subways. Or in elevators. Or at weddings. We don’t communicate with strangers. Or colleagues. Or neighbors. Or friends. Or dogs. Or babies. Please note that it doesn’t matter how cute the baby is. If we Swedes don’t know the baby, we ignore it. Don’t try to behave in a different way, please. We Swedes are very wary of outsiders.

Our final stop is Kafé Lyran, located in the southern neighborhood of Bredäng. Here, people are poorer. The dogs less groomed. The satellite dishes more frequent. But Kafé Lyran hasn’t changed much since it was built, back in the late 19th century. The lamps are golden, the view is amazing, the food is… okay. But we are not here for the food, we are here to sit in the shadows of literary giants.

I point out the tables where Ibsen and Selma Lagerlöf sat.

You ask about my recent breakup.

I say that Svetlana Alexiévich is an amazing writer.

You ask if I am eating properly.

I say that I recently reread Hamsun.

You ask if I have always used literature as a shield.

I say no. Yes. Maybe. Because books have always been there for me. Books have never left my side. Books never disappear. Like my ex. Like my father. Like you will.

Please come visit soon.

Best regards,

Jonas Hassen Khemiri