Dana Caspi On:
The Way of Nature by Sara Paborn
Among Scandinavians, the silent loner is somewhat of a stock character, in daily life as well as in literature. The loner is someone whose view of the world is as bleak and frosty as a snowed in day in the middle of a Nordic winter. He (and it’s almost always a he) is a fatalist, convinced that he’s the victim of a grand conspiracy, that everyone around him seeks to humiliate and hound him every step of the way to his grave. His paranoid fear of them is only held in check by his extreme emotional introversion and obsessive self-control: to his mind, impulsiveness leads by necessity to mayhem and violence – the spontaneity of an axe murderer. He habitually wears a mask of disgusted grumpiness, and there is no joy in his life apart from the satisfaction he gains from offending people in a petty, pedantic way, the faint echo of his raging revenge fantasies. Revenge for what? His misanthropy isn’t a result of disappointed love or lost illusions, it’s existential, even inborn. Thrown into an unpredictable, malevolent world, the only thing that keeps him going is his resentful self-reliance. His longing for order and authority, hatred of difference and contempt of weakness make him somewhat of a tragic figure: an archetypal fascist in an age of unbridled individualism.