As a literary translator I have with time acquired a uniquely flexible relationship to my inner grammarian. It is a relationship defined by an adherence to the rules tempered by an intuitive sense of rhythm, poetic subversion, and play in language. I find maintaining this balance particularly challenging when translating literature that creatively rule-bends, where grammar is suspended and each phrase, each sentence, each paragraph must be plied against the English language’s conventions. In the case of The End of the Ocean, this challenge pertains to the author’s use of run-on sentences as a form of interior monologue. In recent years, the run-on sentence has acquired increased currency as a legitimate narrative technique in Norwegian literature. In English, where it is frowned upon and not only by traditionalists, if you are going to write one, you’d better be sure not only that you know what you are doing, but especially why you are doing it. The literary intention must justify the means of its expression. Run-on sentences are employed in The End of the Ocean to express the momentum of Signe’s reflections during a sailing journey undertaken in solitude. The structure of the prose expresses the associative nature of the character’s thoughts, and, rhythmically speaking, also replicates the ebb and flow of water, the thematic focus of the novel, and Signe’s personal Holy Grail. I have done my best to preserve the narrative flow in the translation, all the while weighing the intention of the Norwegian original against the conventions of the English language—which of necessity also involves understanding when the subversion of those conventions does and doesn’t work.

In the sections of the novel dedicated to the character David, the author employs a deceptively straightforward, almost minimalist prose as the bearer of the novel’s powerful and timely message. Such “clean” language is also a challenge for the translator, as there is always the risk of flattening a well-wrought phrase through the use of overly simplistic or obvious solutions. Writing of this nature requires attentiveness to the connotative echoes of language and the rhythmic patterns of each particular phrase, sentence, and scene within the book as a whole. This is one of Maja Lunde’s gifts: her ability to express complexity and create multifaceted characters through what at first glance would appear to be virtually transparent and unassuming prose. It is my hope that I have done it justice in the translation.

Here ends Maja Lunde’s

The End of the Ocean.

The first edition of this book was printed and bound at LSC Communications in Harrisonburg, Virginia, January 2020.

A NOTE ON THE TYPE