The Nobel Prize
in Literature 1931
The Nobel Prize
in Literature 1931Presentation Speech by Anders Österling, Member of the Nobel Committee of the Swedish Academy, on December 10, 1931
If an interested foreigner
were to ask one of Erik Axel Karlfeldt's countrymen what we admire most in this
poet and on what qualities his national greatness depends, it would at first seem
easy to give an answer. People like to talk of what they love. The Swede would
say that we celebrate this poet because he represents our character with a style
and a genuineness that we should like to be ours, and because he has sung with
singular power and exquisite charm of the tradition of our people, of all the
precious features which are the basis for our feeling for home and country in
the shadow of the pine-covered mountains.
But the Swede would soon
check himself, realizing that such a general explanation is insufficient, that
in Karlfeldt there are many things, beloved but difficult to define, which a proper
appraisal must take into account but which are inaccessible to the foreigner.
Hence we can offer no ready-made expression of our conviction of the high rank
of Karlfeldt's poetry, for there are elements of mysticism in it, powers and instincts
that elude analysis.
We face a similar difficulty on this occasion
when we are to briefly sketch the life-work of the great lyrical poet, since it
has now been made the object of a great international award. It is the deliberate
self-limitation of lyrical poetry, and at the same time its fate, that its most
profound qualities and values are indissolubly connected with the character and
rhythm of its original language, with the meaning and weight of every single word.
Karlfeldt's individuality may be dimly felt in a translation, but only in Swedish
can it be fully comprehended. However, if one attempts to find independent comparative
criteria, he is forced to admit that even the treasures of the so-called great
literatures have only rarely been enriched by such jewels as Karlfeldt has created
in a so-called minor language.
If we look back on Karlfeldt's notable
career from its début in 1895 and follow it through the works of three
decades, steady though limited in size by his austere standards, we see very clearly
how this man used his talents with a rare instinct for the fruitful, the solid,
and the genuine. He began as a minstrel and a singer of nature, conscious of his
ability but still doubtful of his calling. Was there any use for the dreams that
thronged his breast? Could they have a meaning for a whole people? Early in his
career, the poet looked for a deputy, an alter ego, an independent figure suited
to represent his feelings, his sufferings, and his longing as well as his sarcasm.
The famous Fridolin was at first a creation of shyness, for the poet was reluctant
to appear in his own person and expose the private life of his soul. Fridolin
soon became a classic, and he has his place in the rout of Northern Bacchus, rustic
cousin of the characters of Bellman, with a firmer gait, but with flowers on his
hat from the harvest festival at Pungmakarebo. Karlfeldt's home became more and
more an artistic microcosm in which the universe was mirrored in the same manner
as Biblical scenes are mirrored in the baroque fantasies of the frescoes in the
farmhouses of Dalekarlia. With his sense of humour, which was often reverence
in disguise, he kept his being unstained, and he preserved the magic ring of harmony.
But his seemingly peaceful development must have contained many struggles and
tensions, just enough to create the necessary pressure for the creative spring.
Poetry was for Karlfeldt a continuous test of the strength and substance of his
being. Thus he gave a powerful finale to his poetry in Hösthorn (1927) [The
Horn of Autumn], his epilogue played on a winter organ, whose pipes reach from
earth to heaven but at the same time sound a childhood echo of the small white
churches in Dalarna.
The unity of his work is a rarity in our time.
If one asks about Karlfeldt's main problem, one word may serve as an answer: self-discipline.
His originality grew on the soil of a pagan and luxuriant wilderness, and he would
not have been drawn so often to witch motifs and the pitchy brew of Uriel if he
had not felt the presence of demons. The muffled tumult of nature under the moon
of pagan festivals is one of the visions that he evokes. The contrast between
the heavy intoxication of the blood and the pure celestial yearnings of the soul
recurs constantly in his poetry. Yet the different elements never destroy each
other. He tames them as does an artist by remaining faithful to himself and by
giving a personal touch even to the smallest detail.
In Karlfeldt
we find scarcely a single expression of poetic self-consciousness. The increasing
response to his work would have made such an expression superfluous even if his
solid peasant blood had not been a protection against aesthetic arrogance. We
find everywhere proof of the integrity of professional honour that is revealed
in beautiful and permanent work. In an age in which handmade things have become
rare, there is a new and almost moral value in the masterly, chiselled, and resonant
language of his verse.
Karlfeldt's poetry possesses precisely this
stamp of miraculous perfection. Which of us does not remember such stanzas ringing
like bells or vibrating like strings, but above all sung with that peculiar and
resounding voice that differs from all others? Perhaps we should remember in this
context the beautiful song about the old turner, the village craftsman, who played
the fiddle for the people on the banks of the Opplimen and made spinning wheels
for them...
In all great poetry there is an interrelation between
tradition and experiment, and the principles of renewal and conservation are contained
in such poetry. The national tradition survives in Karlfeldt because it is renewed
personally and has the character of a conquest dearly bought. We may rejoice that
this poet, whose inspiration is drawn predominantly from a past that is disappearing
or has disappeared, is thoroughly unconventional in his means of expression and
shows daring innovations, whereas busy modernists often content themselves with
following the latest trends and fads. Nor can there be any doubt that, despite
his provincial subject matter, the singer of Dalarna is one of the contemporary
poets who have most boldly tried the wings of imagination and experimented with
the possibilities of poetic form.
Thus the decision to honour the
poetry of Erik Axel Karlfeldt with this year's Nobel Prize is intended as an expression
of justice by international standards. Death has stepped between the laureate
and his reward; under the circumstances the Prize will be given to his family.
He has left us, but his work remains. The tragic world of chance is outshone by
the imperishable summer realm of poetry. Before our eyes we see the tomb in the
dusk of winter. At the same time we hear the great victorious harmonies sung by
the happiness of the creative genius; we feel the scents from the Northern pleasure
garden that his poetry created for the comfort and joy of all receptive hearts.
At the banquet, Professor C.W. Oseen spoke about the deceased
laureate, «Is there nothing that is only beneficial, to humanity as well
as to the individual? Perhaps there is! What the poems of Erik Axel Karlfeldt
have meant to the Swedish people, you, honoured guests, cannot know, but for us
it remains unforgettable. For thirty-five years they have accompanied the ups
and downs of our lives. That nothing may emerge from Karlfeldt's work, this world
of beauty, for the benefit of humanity and the individual, I cannot believe, I
will not believe. And yet - how far are we from the intentions of Alfred Nobel
even here? Out of the prize meant to help a needy artist we have made a wreath,
a wreath to adorn the coffin of our most beloved poet.
If today's
award does not strictly follow Nobel's intentions, does that mean that the result
of this procedure will be less than what Nobel intended? I say not! What we have
created is not less but more! This festive ceremony is a tribute to genius. It
may not have much in common with Alfred Nobel's dreams but it is akin to his work.
He was a genius himself His work has served humanity, to build and to destroy.
It has served and destroyed life. The festive occasion we are celebrating is dedicated
to genius with its good and evil faces, with this double significance, because
we do not know what humanity needs most and what furthers its prospering most:
‹good› or ‹evil›. We dedicate this ceremony to genius,
brother of madness, to whom we owe everything that makes our lives worthwhile.»
From Nobel Lectures, Literature 1901-1967, Editor Horst Frenz, Elsevier Publishing Company, Amsterdam, 1969
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