![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() In the glow of my desk lamp, a tiny island of light in the darkness where I sit, there is, in principle, no difference between the idea I entertain of Berlin at this moment and the city as it was perceived at the beginning of the last century, the city of which Walter Benjamin wrote in his memoirs, and which, at that time, had seen neither the First nor the Second World War. Mentally, however, when considered from here, Berlin seems almost like some other world, a parallel reality, akin most of all, perhaps, to a dream or a mirage. Physically, Berlin isn’t far away at all, a small matter of taking the ferry from Ystad to Poland, then driving for three hours, after which you arrive in the middle of Germany’s capital city. This is the southeastern part of Sweden, a few short kilometres from the sea, a small village surrounded on all sides by sweeping fields that, at present, are being ploughed and made ready for winter by a small armada of tractors. Even the colony of crows that, each evening, fill two enormous trees close by with their din and commotion are sleeping. It’s early morning as I write these words, the darkness is thick outside my windows, and, in the sky, which is cold and clear, the stars are strikingly bright. The following was delivered at the Axel-Springer-Haus, in Berlin, on November 6th, as an acceptance speech for the Welt Literaturpreis, awarded annually by the German newspaper Die Welt. ![]()
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