No Wonder I Feel Right At Home In Gdansk, Poland (In The Company Of A Certain Naked Woman)

1.
I'm presenting my novel The Tsar's Dwarf at Uniwersytet Gdanski in Poland, and no wonder I feel right at home.

A few minutes before my reading I run into The Little Mermaid. She's sitting stark naked in the hall trying to read Søren Kierkegaard. No wonder she looks depressed. But I've always been a fan of our national symbol, so I decide to cheer her up by gently stroking her breasts. She gets quite aroused, of course, and as you can tell from the picture I get tired from my handiwork.

Actually, I love the fact that the Danish national symbol is visiting Poland. We have a duty to share her with the world, so first The Little Mermaid went to Expo in Shanghai, and now she's hanging out at Uniwersytet Gdanski hoping to get laid.

"Your Danish mermaid used to sit in the Norwegian class room, but we got so sick of her we threw her out," Hilde, the Norwegian instructor tells me with a cruel smile. But I forgive her. I always forgive Norwegians. That's how loving a person I am.

2.
Gdansk is beautiful. I had no idea that the historical center was so breathtaking. It took me back to the happy days of 1716 when everybody wore powdered wigs and didn't worry about the Euro.

Seriously, if I'd known that Gdansk was this gorgeous I would have gone years ago. Gdansk is only 50 minutes by plane from Copenhagen, but it seems like another world. The prices are low, the graffiti in the train stations are awesome, and people really know how to drink. And hey, I'm deeply impressed with the language as well. The Poles don't believe in vowels. They were forbidden by law a long time ago and they seem to have a kinky love affair with the letter Z. They put it absolutely everywhere, especially in places where it doesn't belong.

But as I said, what impresses me the most is the old part of Gdansk. It was expertly rebuild after the war and it really should be a major tourist attraction for those of us who love the baroque period.

Hi, Hermann Hesse, I'm Right Outside Your House. Why Don't You Come Out And Play?

1.
I'm visiting the great novelist and poet Hermann Hesse.

Frankly, I haven't been invited, but I don't really care, and Hermann probably doesn't, either. I'm in his house in Montagnola in the Italian speaking part of Switzerland. Hermann Hesse lived here from 1919 until his death in 1962, and I can't say I blame him. The area is absolutely gorgeous, overlooking Lago di Lugano and the majestic Alps. If I'd lived here I would have written Siddharta, too.

Right now I'm walking around the first house Hesse lived in. It's called Torre Camuzzi and is a museum for the great German/Swiss writer who won the Nobel Prize in 1946. One Nobel prize is too little if you ask me. The man should have won two! I mean, have you ever read Demian and Siddharta? Hesse wasn't just a great writer, he was also a mystic, a philosopher, a pacifist, and a humanitarian who stood up against the Kaiser, Hitler, and the nationalism of the day.

When I read Demian the first time I was totally blown away because the novel is a spiritual manifesto and a visionary masterpiece that easily could have been written today. I mean, can you mention any writer in the world who had such insight, such language, and used spiritual symbolism in a way that would have made Confucius, Krishnamurti, and Jung proud? Actually, Hermann Hesse was inspired by Jung as well.

2.
I have a lot in common with Hermann Hesse, except for the small fact that I'm not a genius.

I'm as heavily influenced by Indian mysticism as he was. I'm in love with Francis of Assisi, and I'm a nomad and pacifist as well. So Hermann Hesse holds up a mirror for me. All great artists do. When a reader loves a writer it's never only the writing he or she connects to; it's something deeper - a vision shared, a voice in the wind, a sense that we were downloaded from the same celestial sphere.

Hermann Hesse even had a younger partner as I do, and he loved traveling in Italy - a country that always has been a great inspiration for me as a novelist and soul. Funnily enough I never knew anything about Hesse's personal life until a few months ago. In 2001 I read Siddharta and loved the prose and the wisdom, but it's only this summer I've started to read the rest of Hesse's books, and what a great journey I'm on. Narcissus and Goldmund is another gem dealing with the struggle between the spiritual life and the earthly pleasures.

It's also quite a journey walking around Hesse's home, admiring his straw-hat, the glasses he wore, the ancient typewriter he wrote on with the uneven keys - not forgetting the private pictures of the novelist/poet/painter sunbathing in the nude. (Yes, Hermann was German after all and Germans like to take off their clothes). I almost feel as if I'm stalking a ghost, but that's okay because I love stalking, and I enjoy every minute I spend in the small, quaint museum.

3.
The last thing I do is sit by Hermann Hesse's tomb a kilometer away from his house in a beautiful cemetery, surrounded by cypresses and bird song. His gravestone is simple and humble contrary to most of the others. A small Buddha is sitting on top, and Hesse's third wife is lying next to him. After all, he was just another soul passing through, guided by forces so much greater than him, and it's in that knowledge true humility is born.

I'm very moved by the stillness and the presence at the small cemetery. However, I know that Hermann Hesse wasn't a saint during his life. His work was everything to him; he often suffered from depressions and felt like a misfit in this dualistic world, but I'm extremely grateful for the art and the insights the weird German Steppenwolf gave to the world and me.

So danke, grazie, thank you, Hermann. I enjoyed stalking you, and I'll continue reading your novels, your poetry, and your fairy tales until there are no more left.  Why wouldn't I because sometimes, for a second or two,  I sense you around me, even though that's most likely my imagination.

Writing at Lake Lugano the day after I visited the museum in Montagnola.

Being Published in the US: The Joy of Losing My American Virginity

1.
I'm a newcomer to American publishing. You could call me a virgin.

Late in 2008 my first book came out in the US. It was a translated novel, The Tsar's Dwarf, and I was very excited. Even though I'm an eternal optimist, the novel got more reviews than I expected. And lots of attention from wonderful indie book sellers everywhere. I also went on a US tour to nine states, and during those months I learned a lot of things about American publishing.

2.
First of all, you Yanks have a God I'd never heard of before. She's called wordcount. Every time I talked to writers, agents or publishers they prayed to this deity. It almost seemed as if she was more important than the books themselves. "How many words did you write today?" "120,00 words are too long for the market." "Thirty-four sexual slurs on a page won't go down well with your readers in  Kansas."

Another thing that fascinated me was the many exciting genres you have in the America:  Literary Fiction, Gay Literature, Trans Gender Poetry, Horror Romance with Zombies, Horror Romance without Zombies, and my favorite, Non-Creative Fiction. Everything needs a label, so the books can hunt down an audience.


My reading at Powell's City of Books in Portland, Oregon, the biggest book store west of the Rockies, fall, 2008.

3.
In a certain way, this makes sense, but you have to realize that I'm from a country of less than six million inhabitants. Actually, Denmark is so small that people in the US ask me if I know their cousins in Belgium. So when I go into huge book stores in America and find books on Famous Crack Addicts In Beaverton, it makes me laugh with joy.

So am I appalled with American publishing, you may ask? Not at all. I would love to write a best seller in English. But I only want to do it if it's on my terms. I wouldn't dream of speculating in genres, topics, and trends. Writing novels is my biggest passion, and I will do it till the day I die.

So is there any hope for me in the US? It seems like it. Nineteen months after its release, The Tsar's Dwarf still receive reviews in America, Canada, and Great Britain. And my first experience with an American publisher, Hawthorne Books has been very positive. You may even argue there's a market for Weird Satirical Genre-Bending Historical Novelists From Denmark With An Attitude?



Some quotes from the latest reviews of my translated novel:

"The Tsar's Dwarf (translated by Tiina Nunnally) challenges readers to find sympathy for a character driven by misanthropy ... Fogtdal pursues this path through the literary tradition of existentialist style, established in characters ranging from Dostoevsky's protagonist in Notes from Underground to Seybold's Austerlitz." Joe Ponepinto, The Los Angeles Review, Volume 7

"Sørine is an original. I have never come across her like in a book before ... It's another historical novel that is funny, sad and delightful, all of which makes it sound elegant when in fact it's contemptuous, uproarious and potentially overwhelming."Juxtabooks

"Fogtdal’s prose is fantastic and I was thoroughly impressed by the translation ... It is quite unlike any other book I’ve read. Never has a character like Sørine been created; her unexpected uniqueness is a breath of fresh air. Though brash and uncomfortable at times, The Tsar’s Dwarf is quite the accomplishment. Highly recommended." The Literary Lollipop

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Kafka in Disneyland (Prague, The City of Sweet Nightmares)

1.
It happened at my wonderful hotel in Prague.

I'd been watching the first half of the Spain-Germany semifinal game and went out to get an ice cream with a friend. We got delayed and ran back to the hotel, up the stairs, and into my room. Then we threw ourselves on the couch, and I turned on the TV.

Strangely enough, I noticed that the TV-set had been moved, but I didn't think much about it. We wanted to concentrate on the game, and luckily none of the teams had scored.

But something felt wrong. I started to look around. On the desk there was a message in a handwriting I didn't know. On the table there was a computer that wasn't mine. Next to it, a book about Basel was thrown onto a chair. I started to sweat. Had I been reading a book about Switzerland without knowing it? Maybe I was sicker than I thought?

I slowly turned to my friend, "Claudio, I think we've walked into the wrong room."

"No, dai" he said, not wanting to take his eyes off the soccer. At that point, it was a 0-0 game, and Italians can't get enough of 0-0 games. To them it's an art form.

I turned off the TV and we ran out of the room. When I carefully closed the door I noticed that we'd gone into number 5 on the second floor, not number 9 on the third floor.

Evidently, my key card could get me in anywhere at this Czech hotel - well, maybe all over Prague and Eastern Europe as well?


2.
Actually, nothing should surprise you in Prague.

It's Franz Kafka's birthplace. As my literary readers know, Kafka is the patron saint of paranoid schizophrenics everywhere; he's a writer so sinister and dark he makes Stephen King look like Mary Poppins.

Actually, Prague is a pretty dark place, too. I'd been in the Czech capital for less than two hours before I was ripped off. This happened at one of the many official Money Exchangers. I got $20 less than the proclaimed rate and told the woman I wanted my money. "Not possible," she said, her eyes enjoying the fight. A Czech writer friend of mine had to call the police before I got the right amount of koruna.

"Everybody cheats in this city," my Czech friend said. "They feel they have to because they're convinced that you cheat, too."

Kafka would have been pleased.





3.
After that nasty experience, we wanted to do something to cheer us up, so we went to the Medieval Torture Museum. I was disappointed that they didn't indulge in water boarding back in those days, but Dick Cheney wasn't around in the 16th Century. Or maybe he was. I believe in reincarnation and I can easily see Cheney as a Bohemian Duke practicing his art on Slovakian scumbags.

Later we went to a Czech restaurant and feasted on delicious pork knees - something that actually passes for food in the Czech Republic. They took me three days to digest, but hey, at least they were expensive.





4.
So didn't I like Prague at all, you may ask?  You got that wrong, I absolutely loved it. Prague is an unbelievably gorgeous city, a Gothic Disneyland of sheer beauty with castles and magnificent churches. It's one of the prettiest capitals in Europe, but it's not a city that gives you a hug. Prague kicks you in the gut; it's a poetic nightmare. It's unreal, disillusioned, tired, fascinating, and worth visiting if you take nothing for face value.

"The Communists have gone but have been replaced with people of the same mind set,"my Czech writer friends says. "Nothing has really changed. Our revolution has become bitter velvet."

Her name is Dominika Dery. We were both invited to a literary conference in Cognac four years ago. Dominika has written a fascinating book about being the daughter of a Czech dissident in Communist Prague in the seventies and eighties. It's called The Twelve Little Cakes and did well in Australia, America, France, and Italy. But strangely enough, it hasn't come out in her own language, Czech.

"People aren't interested in that kind of book here," she said.

We crossed Karluv Most, the famous Charles Bridge where there's a fabulous view to the castle, the green hills, and the Kafka Museum. It's one of the prettiest places in Central Europe. Unfortunately, a few tourists around the world know that as well, so you can't cross it without passing ten Japanese tour groups and 1001 Danes lusting for Czech pivo ...





5.
My last morning in Prague I woke up and discovered that I'd turned into a cockroach.
  
My back was hard as armor; my abdomen had been divided into rigid bow-like sections. I had numerous legs, but they were pitifully thin in comparison to my old ones. When I reached for my key card, I got the feeling that good old Franz would have been pleased.


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