{"product_id":"the-pastor-isbn-9781953861085","title":"The Pastor","description":"\u003cb\u003eA major work of contemporary fiction from a “leading light of international literature” (\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review), Hanne Ørstavik, whose last novel, \u003ci\u003eLove\u003c\/i\u003e, won the PEN Translation Prize.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA thought-provoking, existential novel – as Liv searches for meaning and identity in her own life, she must find the words to connect, comfort and lead others.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLiv, an intense and reticent theologian, moves to a bitterly cold fishing village to take up a post as the church’s new pastor following the death of her friend, Kristiane. In the upper rooms of a large house overlooking the fjord, Liv plans her sermons and studies the violent interplay of Norway’s Christian colonial past. She trails downstairs into the apartment below for dinners and breakfasts with a widow and her two children. As Liv becomes acquainted with the villagers and their own private tragedies, memories bloom in passages that urgently question the unpredictable bedrock of language, and the peculiar channels of imagined experience as it might have been, if only there had been a different set of words, or an outstretched hand.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe past mingles darkly with the present, cascading in chilling images: a dog lying dead in the snowy plains, Kristiane’s teeth flashing as she laughs, a procession of singing, knife-carrying protesters curving along a river’s edge. Martin Aitken’s translation of this extraordinary novel rings with the brilliance and rigor of a master.\"Ørstavik skillfully weaves three levels of time together . . . [She] succeeds in creating a powerful story in which the reader hears the voice of the troubled protagonist who is struggling to find meaning in her life, meaning in her relationship with God and with those around her.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Christine Meloni,\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Norwegian American\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A less profound writer than Ørstavik may have opted for a more commercial storyline, one in which the wise townspeople gently educate their bumptious young preacher about their quirky ways. Instead, like Alice McDermott, another author who doesn’t shy away from the spiritual, Ørstavik drives Liv into the realization of her own failure: She hasn’t come to Norway’s far reaches to minister to others; she’s come to escape . . . \u003ci\u003eThe Pastor\u003c\/i\u003e is a quietly radical book.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Patricia Schultheis,\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eWashington Independent Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In Ørstavik’s deeply thoughtful and captivating latest (after \u003ci\u003eLove\u003c\/i\u003e),  a woman spends a year in Kjøllefjord, Norway, as an assistant pastor . .  . The various threads shuffle seamlessly in Liv's head and build to a  heartbreaking crescendo, filled in with brilliant descriptions of the  flat landscape (a church above the fjord sits “brilliantly white... on a  dish of darkness”). Ørstavik distinguishes herself as a leading light  in international literature. \"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ørstavik’s slow-burning narrative crescendoes as a potent feminist anthem.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e--Publishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, Best Books of 2021\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[A] beautiful and haunting gem . . . A quiet, resonant novel in which a young female pastor narrates the story of her self-exile to a sparse outpost in the far North and her relationships with the village locals—a rough, hardworking bunch who hide their vulnerabilities . . . \u003ci\u003eThe Pastor\u003c\/i\u003e is the fascinating story of a woman in a strange setting who continually probes the vital question of how to live a meaningful life.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Lori Feathers,\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eLiterary Hub\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The desolate beauty of a Nordic winter mirrors the interior landscape of a troubled priest in \u003ci\u003eThe Pastor\u003c\/i\u003e, a mesmerizing study of spiritual unease . . . With writerly grace and moral seriousness . . . \u003ci\u003eThe Pastor\u003c\/i\u003e summons a sweep of images and questions bound to linger.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Theo Henderson,\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"One of the many things addressed [in \u003ci\u003eThe Pastor\u003c\/i\u003e] is the power of words, as Liv’s area of study was concerning an incident in Scandinavian history where varying translations of the Bible led to violence towards the Sámis . . . I loved Ørstavik’s writing style; it was almost hypnotic, and very comforting . . . Once the reader is sucked in, it is very hard to break away.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Tracey Ann Thompson,\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eCalifornia Reading\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"The unreliability of language may be a motif here, but Ørstavik is in full control — and Martin Aitken, his hand steady on the throttle, discerns her intentions with an acute ear . . . The qualities of The Pastor, like those of Love, deliver us to what is actual.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e--Ron Slate, \u003ci\u003eOn the Seawall\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Liv is a compelling narrator, someone whose own state is perhaps liminal—attached only faintly to life—and who is in constant longing for a connection to others that defies boundaries and heals wounds. This is the triumph of Ørstavik’s novel—to make, in its examination of language, the guilt of colonization ubiquitous and its hope of redemption a collective responsibility.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Titus Chalk, \u003ci\u003eHeavy Feather Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Set deep in the endless night of an Arctic winter, The Pastor is a novel that pushes into that darkness—on an emotional, spiritual, and historical level—in search of some glimmer of clarity, some sense of meaning in an uncertain, insensible world . . . Martin Aitken’s sensitive translation maintains an atmosphere of profound longing for connection and contact.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Joseph Schreiber, \u003ci\u003eRough Ghosts\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Liv is not a character who comes quickly to terms with her own motivations . . . She wants to decolonize everything, to lean into every ambiguity, to smack the certainty out of every answer . . . in spite of this being a novel, wordiest genre in literature, the value of words might still be honestly and plainly doubted and interrogated.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--\u003c\/i\u003e Abby Walthausen, \u003ci\u003eThe Rupture\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eLove\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • In this swift, elegantly constructed novel, Hanne Ørstavik masterfully conveys a sense of entwined dread and longing that doesn't let up for a second. From the opening page to the powerfully moving finale, this tale of a mother and son is riveting. The characters' inner lives are illumined by a beautiful eeriness, and the translation's precision and clarity do justice to the novel's intensities. Read it: it'll bat around your brain for a long time afterward. \u003cb\u003e-- Martha Cooley\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e   • Ørstavik's mastery of perspective and clean, crackling sentences prevent sentimentality or sensationalism from trailing this story of a woman and her accidentally untended child. Both of them long for love, but the desire lines of the book are beautifully crooked. Jon wants his mother, and to be let in out of the cold...the cold that seems a character throughout this excellent novel of near misses. \u003cb\u003e-- Claire Vaye Watkins, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e   • A haunting masterpiece... The deceptively simple novel is slow-burning, placing each character into situations associated with horror - entering an unfamiliar house, accepting a ride from a stranger - and the result is a magnificent tale. \u003cb\u003e-- \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e   • Prizewinning Norwegian Ørstavik follows the parallel courses of a single mother and her 8-year-old son during a night that moves unrelentingly toward tragedy... A nightmarish sense of impending doom hangs over these carefully detailed, tightly controlled pages... icy cold to the core. \u003cb\u003e-- \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e   • Point of view works like a spot of living light in this slender book, with deft perspective shifts occurring between Vibeke, a hardworking, distracted mother, and Jon, her curious, lonely young son, on nearly every page. Mother and son are each on a separate journey, but the reader watches their whole shared life, as memories are folded expertly between breaths in Orstavik's urgent, visually vivid present tense - what a lovely shape. Nothing is wasted. And I'm astonished by the precision and poetry of Martin Aitken's translation from the Norwegian. \u003cb\u003e-- Gina Balibrera, Literati Bookstore\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e   • A creeping sense of unease is ratcheted up by the cool, lucid prose and how the paragraphs shift between mother and son, clarifying how close they should be and how close they aren't... Multi-award winner Ørstavik offers an unsettling read that most will enjoy.\u003cb\u003e -- Barbara Hoffert, \u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e   • Love can change everything. And it does in this edgy, elegiac and beautifully written novel...What you think will happen doesn't - and what does breaks your heart. \u003cb\u003e-- Kerri Arsenault, \u003ci\u003eOprah.com\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e   • Ørstavik's ingenious device is to toggle between their two consciousnesses from one paragraph to the next, so that their narratives run as though on parallel train tracks, never to meet, even as they lie cheek to cheek. Layers of unremarkable everyday intimacy and acres of emotional distance are compressed between the lines ... Ørstavik has found fertile territory here in which to dig into the raging solipsism of the inner life ... We are all sealed worlds, Ørstavik seems to suggest; it's dark outside, and it's dark inside too. \u003cb\u003e-- Justine Jordan, \u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eHANNE ØRSTAVIK\u003c\/b\u003e, one of the most admired and prominent writers in contemporary Norwegian fiction, published her first novel \u003ci\u003eCut\u003c\/i\u003e in 1994. Ørstavik has written a number of acclaimed novels that have been translated into more than 16 languages. She has been awarded a host of literary prizes, including the Dobloug Prize, presented annually for Swedish and Norwegian fiction by the Swedish Academy. The English translation of \u003ci\u003eLove\u003c\/i\u003e was a finalist for a National Book Award. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMARTIN AITKEN\u003c\/b\u003e has translated numerous novels from Danish and Norwegian, including works by Karl Ove Knausgaard, Peter Høeg, Helle Helle, and Kim Leine. In 2012, he was awarded the American-Scandinavian Foundation's Nadia Christensen Translation Prize. The National Book Foundation wrote of his translation of \u003ci\u003eLove,\u003c\/i\u003e \"The aerial beauty of Martin Aitken's translation contributes to make the novel a successful rarity.\" His translation won the PEN Translation Prize.This is the blood of Christ.\u003cbr\u003eI stepped sideways again and poured wine into the next\u003cbr\u003eshiny little communion cup. I looked at the bowed heads in\u003cbr\u003efront of me, a row of heads, one after another. It was all just\u003cbr\u003ethe way it was supposed to be, I thought to myself. To this\u003cbr\u003eplace you may come, and be as one. Here you are chosen, special.\u003cbr\u003eYou shall not be overlooked, but may dwell here. You, that\u003cbr\u003ewas me too. We.\u003cbr\u003eThe altar rail was a beginning. Its semicircle was a sign that\u003cbr\u003esaid it was a part of something larger, a circle. And enclosing\u003cbr\u003ethat circle was another circle, which in turn was enclosed by\u003cbr\u003eanother, larger still, a great, gleaming space, vast and infinite.\u003cbr\u003eIt said too that we could be together here, every one of us.\u003cbr\u003eHere. Here you may dwell. This place is for you.\u003cbr\u003eThere was a silence. It seemed as if they were fanned out in\u003cbr\u003efront of me, as if a line went from each of their spines, stretching\u003cbr\u003eout into a landscape, out into the open expanse, out over\u003cbr\u003ethe fells, out over the sea and onwards, into infinity. They had\u003cbr\u003etaken that landscape inside with them. Soon they would rise,\u003cbr\u003ewould push open the doors and go out into it again, and\u003cbr\u003edisperse.\u003cbr\u003eThese people, kneeling. As if to say: we tolerate you, despite\u003cbr\u003eeverything. Perhaps they’d even forgotten. I could have gone\u003cbr\u003esomewhere else, somewhere other than here, only I knew\u003cbr\u003esomething would have happend there too. Not the same thing\u003cbr\u003eagain, but something else I couldn’t prevent. Something inevitable\u003cbr\u003efrom which subsequently I would have been unable to\u003cbr\u003ehide. Something that could be seen in my face.\u003cbr\u003eIt was last year, my first service here. I’d stood at the pulpit\u003cbr\u003elooking out upon them, the congregation waiting to hear\u003cbr\u003ewhat the new pastor had to say. My sermon was about the\u003cbr\u003eprodigal son: his returning home, his father who slaughtered\u003cbr\u003ethe fatted calf in celebration, his brother’s envy, the festivities\u003cbr\u003ethey held. I stood in my vestments, the soft-hued stole draped\u003cbr\u003eover my shoulders, the one Kristiane had made for me. I\u003cbr\u003elooked out upon them, willing them to listen, to really listen,\u003cbr\u003eto open themselves to what I was saying, and understand. It\u003cbr\u003ewas how I wanted the church to be. A place in which a person\u003cbr\u003ereturning home could be received with joy and festivity. I saw\u003cbr\u003eit as my task to ensure the church remained a place of welcome,\u003cbr\u003eso that anyone who wanted could come inside, to join\u003cbr\u003enot with me but with the community, and find quietude there.\u003cbr\u003eA place that would celebrate them. A place in which they\u003cbr\u003ewould feel themselves accepted.\u003cbr\u003eThat was what I talked about. On and on I went. I didn’t\u003cbr\u003efeel like I was saying things properly. I had to say them again,\u003cbr\u003eover and over again. Rambling on. In my soft vestments, holding\u003cbr\u003eforth. For nearly a whole hour I went on. It had been\u003cbr\u003eimpressed upon us during the practicum that the sermon\u003cbr\u003eshould not exceed a quarter of an hour. No longer, preferably\u003cbr\u003enot even as long as that. For it’s not the words they remember.\u003cbr\u003eWell, a few words perhaps, a turn of phrase they happen to\u003cbr\u003efind useful, something that seems meaningful to them at that\u003cbr\u003eparticular moment in time. But on the whole, they won’t\u003cbr\u003eremember what you’ve said, only the experience of it. So give\u003cbr\u003ethem an experience. Do it in fifteen minutes. And never more\u003cbr\u003ethan twenty, because then their minds will wander.\u003cbr\u003eAnd it was true. I’d gone on far too long, and I knew it. But\u003cbr\u003eit was done, and there was nothing I could do to alter it.\u003cbr\u003ePeople got up and left. Even the woman from the parish\u003cbr\u003eoffice did, the woman who’d met me on my arrival and given\u003cbr\u003eme the key to the house, who’d shown me around on my first\u003cbr\u003eday and made me coffee in the office. She stuck it out for a\u003cbr\u003ewhile, but eventually even she had to get up and leave. And\u003cbr\u003eothers who I didn’t know yet, they too got to their feet and\u003cbr\u003ewalked quietly out through the door. Five or six in all. There\u003cbr\u003eweren’t very many to begin with either.\u003cbr\u003eI woke up thinking about it every now and then, which\u003cbr\u003emade me even more ashamed, to be thinking about that\u003cbr\u003einstead of something else that was more important. But I so\u003cbr\u003emuch wanted to get through to them. I had come to them,\u003cbr\u003ewith all my bags and boxes, my carful of belongings, had\u003cbr\u003edriven up only a week after Kristiane’s funeral.\u003cbr\u003eI’d found the vacancy on the internet, assistant to the parish\u003cbr\u003epriest, phoned and then faxed them my documents. The\u003cbr\u003eposition had been advertised several times, only no one had\u003cbr\u003eapplied. A few days later it was all agreed. I packed and set off.\u003cbr\u003eAll the way from the south of Germany I came, all the way up\u003cbr\u003ehere, to this place in the far north.\u003cbr\u003eIt took a day and a night to drive through the pine forests of\u003cbr\u003enorthern Finland before reaching the border. I followed the\u003cbr\u003eriver, crossed over the fells and came to the fjord on the other\u003cbr\u003eside. And as I meandered through the curves of the road, the\u003cbr\u003eroad that hugged the shore on its way towards the town, I had\u003cbr\u003ethe feeling that I was coming home. Even though I’d never\u003cbr\u003ebeen here before. Here, in this landscape, the wide open landscape\u003cbr\u003ethat I’d thought about and imagined, was my home.\u003cbr\u003eThat was what I felt. I wanted it.\u003cbr\u003eAnd that was the reason for my sermon, the reason for all\u003cbr\u003emy many words about coming home. I so much wanted my\u003cbr\u003estory to be ours, to share my experience, to give something of\u003cbr\u003emyself, establish some common ground. I wanted, wanted it\u003cbr\u003eso very much. To come to a place and be able to say we, a place\u003cbr\u003ewhere that was even possible.\u003cbr\u003eBut then I ruined it. Even before it started, I ruined it.\u003cbr\u003eRuined what I wanted and wished for most of all. Time and\u003cbr\u003eagain this was what happened. It seeped from inside me, whatever\u003cbr\u003eit was that made me ruin things, leaking out and messing\u003cbr\u003eeverything up, consuming everyone as it went.\u003cbr\u003eWhen I got home from the church that day I hung Kristiane’s\u003cbr\u003estole away at the back of the wardrobe. I never wore it\u003cbr\u003eagain.\u003cbr\u003eAnd that night he was betrayed. I stood there looking down\u003cbr\u003eon them, hearing my voice in the echoing church. It didn’t\u003cbr\u003esound like it belonged to me there. I spoke not for my own\u003cbr\u003esake, but for mine and theirs together: for us.\u003cbr\u003eThis is the body of Christ. This is the blood of Christ. Thy\u003cbr\u003esins are forgiven. Go, and sin no more.\u003cbr\u003eI held out my hands. It felt like I was letting go of something,\u003cbr\u003eas if something departed from me as I opened my arms\u003cbr\u003eand held out my hands. As if by that gesture something\u003cbr\u003eescaped me and was gone.\u003cbr\u003eThat was what the year had been like. Everything escaped\u003cbr\u003eme. Every time I held out my hands, something escaped me\u003cbr\u003eand was gone.\u003cbr\u003eOr rather, not everything. It was true that something did,\u003cbr\u003ebut somewhere inside me it felt like there was still a place that\u003cbr\u003ecould not be entirely depleted, a kind of subterranean spring\u003cbr\u003ethat continued to bubble.\u003cbr\u003eWhere does it come from? Trickling forth, percolating.\u003cbr\u003eThere, persistent and enduring.\u003cbr\u003eI stood in front of the altar as we sang the hymn. And there\u003cbr\u003ewas a peace in singing the words, a respite. Soon it would be\u003cbr\u003eEaster, a year since it happened.\u003cbr\u003eYes, coming here had to do with Kristiane as well, it had\u003cbr\u003ebeen a reaction of sorts, an action in reverse. In a way, it had\u003cbr\u003ebeen inevitable, I could just as well have been a piece in some\u003cbr\u003eboard game: there I was, at the bottom of the map, southern\u003cbr\u003eGermany, only then I had to be moved, all the way up here.\u003cbr\u003eAction and reaction. As if I’d been slung too close to something,\u003cbr\u003etoo far down, too far in, and had to be propelled back\u003cbr\u003eagain in the opposite direction. Towards what? Towards\u003cbr\u003enothing?","brand":"Archipelago","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300331835621,"sku":"NP9781953861085","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781953861085.jpg?v=1767740884","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-pastor-isbn-9781953861085","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}