Helga Nõu in her home at Raua Street
Photo: Fred-Erik Kerner
Your first novel “The Cat Eats Grass”
was published in Lund in 1965 and
your last, “The Angel and the Idiot”
in Tallinn in 2019. How have your
style, subject matter and perception
of the world changed in 54 years?
Who were your role models then and
who are you following now?
A young person always thinks that he or
she knows everything. I have become
more humble, I accept others and their
opinions more. While writing, I often feel
in opposition, either with the previous
generation or the “public opinion”, I want
to irritate someone. When I was writing
“The Cat Eats Grass” Enn (Helga’s husband,
a writer and a doctor – ed.) kept
urging me on – it was he who made me
write the novel – to write about sex boldly.
I wished to be young and brave and seek
new ways. I was criticised for that and
became more cautious. I actually felt
disappointed in readers. A good comparison
with painting: if I painted an excellent
picture in muted colours, and then added
a bright red blotch, people would see only
the blotch and nothing else.
I could attend school in Estonia for only
two years and therefore did not study literature.
Afterwards, Estonian classics seemed
boring and old-fashioned, and most of it
I still have not read. When I began writing,
I set my sights on modern Swedish
literature, cannot recall the authors now.
However, I wanted to write in Estonian,
and sought younger Estonian authors. The
first who had a lasting impression on me
was Mati Unt and his “Debt”, and then
the young cassette-generation. I felt as if
I shared something with them. Later I
read Tammsaare and have great respect
for him. His psychology is timeless. So
much literature is being published today,
in Estonia and abroad. There is no time
to read everything I would like to read. I
like single books by different authors, but
I cannot name any special influence now.
The action of your last but one novel
“Daffodil, the Man-eater” takes place
at different times in Pärnu, Tartu,
Tallinn, Petrograd, Riga, Oslo, London,
Johannesburg, Bulawayo, Cape
town, Bombay, Singapore, Shanghai,
Hong Kong, Sidney, Alaska etc. “The
Angel”, on the other hand, focuses on
the history of an Estonian farm, although
it also tells about those deported
to Siberia and a coach trip of
Swedish schoolchildren to the Baltic
countries. Have you ever thought of
writing a novel where the action takes place in one tiny room?
Not really. So far – I have written 10
novels – I have preferred an extensive
problem and the relevant information. In
that case the subject matter spreads out,
sometimes perhaps too much. The protagonist
in “Daffodil” is a real-life woman
who indeed travelled through all those
towns and countries. On the other hand, I
could say that a novel begins from a single
seed in my head and takes shape at my writing
desk in a tiny room. Everything that
happens does so through my thoughts,
and
nothing else. When a limited, but strongly
inspiring idea comes to me, then I turn it
into a short story (e.g. the current “Fake
Horse”).
You have lived partly in Uppsala and
partly in Tallinn for 20 years. How
does it feel to live again and create in
your childhood flat from where your
family fled to Sweden 75 years ago?
How have two totally different urban
environments influenced your manner
of writing? Can you start the same
book in one home and finish in the
other?
It was a bit strange at first, somewhat
dream-like, I was not sure whether I had
experienced something or not. What I
remembered myself or what had been told
to me or shown in a picture. Occasionally
I was disappointed when my recollections
did not match the reality. These two
periods still blend together when I think
about my childhood. The interim 44 years
between fleeing Estonia and the first visit
(1944 -1988) was such a long time and
the environment so changed that the present
day seems largely new. Writing the
same book in two homes is not a problem.
When I sit down at the computer and
open the relevant document, I enter my
own “bubble” and am not bothered what
goes on around me.
Helga Nõu. Under the Magnolia Tree
(Daughter Laine).
Oil on canvas, 2016
What has been the most difficult and
the easiest moment in your life?
I do not really know. As a child I experienced
war, bombings and escape, but
I don’t remember that those moments
were so terrible. Of course I was afraid
but children probably have a firm faith in
their “guardian angel” so that life seems
more like a big adventure.
It was crucial that I was not separated
from my parents, they were behind me
all the time. On the other hand, in my
younger years (aged 15-20) in Sweden I
felt alone and unhappy. Everything changed
when I met Enn, we got married and
I was never alone any more. I perceive this
change, although it was not momentary, as
the happiest time in my life.
You are a writer as well as a painter.
Can you
write and paint in parallel?
What is the best time
of day and season
for writing and painting?
Please
compare these creative fields.
Helga Nõu. I am a Landscape. Oil on canvas, 2016
In a sense, writing and painting are the
same thing, expressing your secret ideas.
Only the technique is different. It is not at
all unusual that other creative people, such
as actors or musicians, also write or paint.
Of course it is possible to do several things,
it depends on time and opportunities. I am
lucky enough not to have had to earn my
bread by either of the creative fields. I was
a schoolteacher and yearned for school
holidays to let the dammed-up inspiration
flow freely. There have naturally been
bad periods too, health or other problems,
when I have not done anything except the
bare minimum. And now, in retirement... I
don’t think I can say anything about times
of day and seasons, but enforced routines
do not encourage creativity. On the other
hand, a commission or exhibition (in writing
or visual arts) can make you go for
several days and nights without getting
a bit tired. On the whole, I need a long
time to gather my thoughts for writing. In
painting, an image or a colour combination
could appear in an instant. It’s another
matter whether I grasp it or not...
You are known as a children’s writer.
You have plenty of experience with
your own children and all those you
taught at school in Sweden for 40
years. What is the difference between
writing for children and writing for
adults?
You have to discard your mature and
intelligent thoughts from your head and
become a child. We all have a child in
us, who wants to do something else than
expected. To dream or explore what’s
between your toes or break wind in the
bath and produce the smell of a turnip.
In the past, a children’s book had to be
instructive, but no longer. And the ending
must be a happy one. There will be troublesome
times ahead anyway.
In his memoir, “What I Talk About
When I Talk About Running”, the
Japanese writer Haruki Murakami
has compared writing a novel with
running a marathon, which requires
extremely tough mental and physical
discipline. Your deeply cultural
activities certainly keep you healthy
and youthful. Do you have any useful
tricks how to kick-start yourself and
keep on shape? Do you sit at your
desk every day during such a period
and not wait for blasts of inspirations?
Do you carry out thorough
background research for a novel?
Running a marathon is certainly valid
for professional writers who must make
an effort to produce a book a year. For
me, on the other hand, writing a novel
is a pleasant activity, fleeing the chores
of everyday life – on condition that I
have got the novel “running”. What is
difficult is the beginning and also the end,
which requires managing the loose ends.
But everything in between... After I have
found my characters and their approximate
direction, I sit back comfortably in my
“bubble” and allow them to get going.
They often behave quite differently than
what I had initially planned. I never work
out anything precisely, but I might find
totally unexpected and fascinating facts on
Google about places where my characters
find themselves. However, one bottomless
source is my own life, the encounters,
coincidences, opportunities and thoughts
that have occurred and never been used.
You just need to change a fact, and you get
a subject matter for a new novel. Discipline
is of course my weakest point. I’m a dreamer,
can’t get up in the morning and do
some exercises. I sit at the computer too
much and move too little. Luckily Enn
drags me out and in Sweden we visit the
gym three times a week.
Your books flow smoothly, and you
can keep up the suspense. When I
put down a book, I usually find that
somehow dawn has already arrived.
What would you recommend to the
readers of Epifanio, who also want to
become good writers?
I cannot be bothered with boring books.
I thus think it is important to immediately
start with an “opening bang”, which arouses
the readers’ curiosity and they want to
know what happens next. A clever idea
is to start with the most exciting scene,
and then leave the description unfinished...
Plenty of time then to introduce the
characters and explain the situation. The
reader might otherwise get bored or even
fall asleep. I would also like to mention the
absurd. A writer depicts a scene, characters
and the situation as well as he or she can. He uses all the necessary words, but
something seems missing. In such a case
I am not afraid to use the absurd, which
solves all problems and sends the difficulties
packing. It is very simple, like the secret
word “sim-sala-bimm”. Try it!
You have mastered the short form as
well. A memorable story, for example,
is your “A Letter to Three Alexanders
in the Police Garden” in the collection
“Thirteen Estonian Letters” (LR
1 / 2016), where the plot unravels at
three different times in the Police garden
in Tallinn city centre. Murakami
has described writing a short story as
looking after a small flower garden,
whereas writing a novel means according
to him breaking through a dense
and unfathomable thicket. Would you
comment on the short piece written
for Epifanio.
Helga Nõu. A Blonde. Watercolour on
paper, 1999
I do not agree with Murakami when he
compares a short story with a small flower
garden. I mean it does not apply to my
short story. For me, an idea for a short
story is like an unexpected and beautiful
bloom in the middle of an overgrown
garden. I want to bring forth this single
bloom and choose a literary short form
for this, ending with a punch-line. The
current story “The Fake Horse” is actually
another version of my autobiographical
Police garden story, which tells about an
exile Estonian’s disappointment and pain
when her descendants lose her language.
I don’t want to be an exile Estonian, but I
use this word because I know this is how I
am regarded. “Exile” immediately determines
that I am not “in” or “inside”, i.e. not
quite one of the natives. This topic runs
through the novel “The Angel and the
Idiot”. The short story “The Fake Horse”
tells about four generations where I belong
in the second. I begin with a classical myth
about the beauty contest of languages that
I believed. In exile where alien influence
were quite aggressive, it was necessary to
idealise everything concerning Estonia and
the Estonian language. I was an Estonian
guide and grew up in a truly national spirit.
It is hard to accept that time goes by
and in the fourth generation the language
disappears. To avoid excessive sentimentality
I present the current story as briefly
as possible and finish it with an incident
when my grandson Herman returns from a
football match in Tallinn. I must have been
still naïve to expect newly learned Estonian
words from him. His reply with obscenities
in Russian dealt the hope a lethal blow.
What is the essence of literature?
A writer is alone. He or she works alone
and the resulting piece of writing has no
excuses. Times may change but the writer
could be hanged for his words even after
his death. The same applies to a creator of
visual arts, even when the colours on the
painting fade and the paint itself cracks.
Literature and art are considered eternal at
best, if the works are not actually moulding
or rusting (book clasps) or chewed by mice
or end up full of moth holes. In that sense,
music, theatre, film and architecture are
more flexible, as they depend on others,
contributors, who make the work of art
visible or audible, maybe bring out and
even renew after centuries. Such creative
work can therefore keep fresh for longer.
How long is longer than eternity?
AUGUST KÜNNAPU
Editor of Epifanio and
painter |