Holiday in Ødland: two people, one dog. The people are Vera and the narrator – whether the narrator is male or female remains, like so much in this short story, unclear. But unclear in the best possible way. The story is written with extreme precision, and yet at the same time everything is out of focus: goats, geese, chickens, a shepherd and his family, the landlord of a guesthouse – and overlying everything, a barren landscape. The prose is rugged nature writing, but not the kind that is charged with meaning. This is a story of losing touch with life and feeling your way back towards things and people, quietly, slowly, gropingly. It is an attempt to create order amid chaos through writing, told with the knowledge that such an undertaking is impossible – that every path leads only to new chaos. Everything is minutely recorded, sometimes scored out and rewritten, only to be scored out again. Over and over, new ways of writing are tried out and discarded. What happens at any given moment could in fact be quite different. A sharpening of perception. A permanent questioning of one’s own position. Writing as a form of self-affirmation, a kind of existential trick.