03/03/2026 • Frank Benjamin Horn Hartvedt
Jeg skrev første utgave av romanen Way allerede rundt milleniumsskiftet. En stund etter dette utvidet og bearbeidet jeg teksten, og flere år senere, i 2007, ferdigstilte jeg romanen og publiserte den på det daværende nettstedet world-wide-way.com.
Her følger et utdrag fra romanen:
««Why do you bother being principled when you’ll soon be nothing but a patch of grass to your great-great grandchildren? Let Rachel roll her eyes at you just as much as she wants to. Stop worrying about the state’s insistence on managing half of all you have worked hard for. Just register it in your head. Then you can enjoy the colours of the trees and the movie screen, and write some poems, or go parachuting for a little fresh air. Stop using your time trying to behave properly, as though life was some sort of a final examination for a university degree that you had to pass. Stop thinking. Do something fun instead and worry about dying. ‘Seize the day’, and all of that,» Raymond said indifferently.
Before he looked away from me, he made sure to strangle any clear inconsistencies by saying that it was the first and last time he would express an opinion about me. I shouldn’t interpret his words as criticism, but as well-meaning advice. I should either take back the statement I had shared with them a few weeks earlier, and go on pretending that Jesus was something more than a loveable character, or I should drop meaningless principles.
I smiled broadly. A few minutes earlier, I had an uncomfortably high pulse, and had snapped at two classmates. Now, I was more relaxed than my brittle-boned grandfather. Raymond’s artillery was like Rowan berries compared to Rachel’s high-tech ammunition. Almost tempting. If there was anyone in the classroom who expected a declaration of surrender from the most uncompromising one in the class, they would be quickly branded as mental weaklings lacking in direction. I liked Raymond, but I couldn’t just stand by and watch while a poet tricked an entire class into being hedonists with sporadic bouts of depression.
«You are forgetting hope, Raymond,» I said, smiling both warmly and slyly. A trite opening, but it was a point that had to be brought up at once. I had no intention of holding a long speech. I was just going to point out a fact that Raymond had forgotten to mention, and which was really the most important. The speech, of course, turned out to be long anyway.
«I love life. Every day, I play soccer a few hours. Every day, I weigh my words according to my own standard. Because I want to achieve something. And every week, I reach some goals, and it gives me a rush. You can all think that an irrepressible tingling sensation on your back is a mediocre experience if you want to, but personally, I hope I never lose my appetite for it.»
I smiled warmly with the usual seriousness. Humbled, I was looking for an easy way to make the difference clear between enjoying the colours of autumn and stating that one has achieved a demanding goal while abiding by “meaningless principles”.
«Sure, a person can enjoy zooming around in a bumper car, but this pleasure doesn’t succeed at producing irrepressible biological reactions. A bumper car ride doesn’t involve the same process as an achieved goal,» I said.
I then started to tell them about the months leading up to the district soccer team qualifications.
«I was fifteen years old with a lot of free time and a soccer ball. And most importantly, a pillow and a head full of dreams. During the afternoon, I raced around the soccer field to improve my skills. In the evening, I exercised my brain. My dream of having the district team jacket draped over my shoulders was in my head for hours before I fell asleep, and it was wonderful, but it didn’t give me a rush. It was a nice evening at the fair – nothing more. I liked living. A month later, my name was read out by the county talent scout. The dream I’d dreamt from my pillow was realized. That little boy felt a fire course through his body. He loved living, class.»
I paused briefly. The class was in unusually good form. It was a momentous occasion in the classroom. No one sent any notes. No one interrupted. No one said anything at all. People barely breathed, and concentration had never been sharper.
«I like myself when I respond proudly to a serious statement with a quick rhetorical hook pulled from my own well-kept repertoire. I love life when I’m fighting alone against a united horde, and calms the storm with spit in my face. I don’t waver. A fire burns. I get a confirmation that I have reached the goal of asserting and defending my thoughts.»
I was interrupted. Raymond thought it was getting boring.
«Ok, Way. I actually get it, for the sake of getting on with things at least. You crucify one institution after the other to feel a little electricity. Large-scale thought industry to get the most out of life, eh? But it’s a dangerous thought, Way. Maybe the tingling is a little nicer than a breath of fresh air, but it’s much more expensive as well. Who thinks about Grim Reapers when they’re having fun at the fair, or eating a burger at the corner hamburger joint? In the first place, Way, the greater the pleasure, the harder it is to realize that it is short-lived. And the more one thinks, the greater the chance there is that one gets back to basics and down to earth.»
Raymond thought it wasn’t accidental that many of the great philosophers suffered from depression that ended in despair and a sudden interest in millstones and oceans. He didn’t surprise me. No detours. Right to the point. I liked Raymond.
«Listen, my noble poet,» I said warmly. «I personally believe in a heavenly existence with both hamburgers and tingling. At the very least, I hope and dream that we will join the flowers and come back after we die. When you scribble down your poems with that elegant closing phrase, Raymond, you assume something for which you don’t have the qualification to establish. Why bother with theories when you have a hope that can’t disappear as long as you’re breathing. Of course, it can be difficult to imagine that 100 years is the maximum when you’re scoring the decisive goal in the last minute of the finale, but why imagine it? It’s indefensible, and I’m not sure it should be all that understandable either. If someone has alternatives, they always choose the best one.»
Raymond wondered if I had ever seen an old acquaintance come back from the hereafter. Smiling pleasantly, I told him that I didn’t want to write it off. The person in question would in any case be too young for me to recognize if he did come back – it wasn’t even a certainty that he would have lived in my region.
Raymond didn’t shift his gaze from my eyes as I spoke. This was more rewarding than anti-depressives a la Mozart. He smiled.
«Alright, Way. Life is wonderful and lasts forever. Hallelujah! I’m bored already. The tingling was great the first twenty times, but damn if I can handle more than a hundred years of bumper cars and thought intoxication. You’ll get tired of it soon, too.»
It was a frivolous statement, and he knew it. I couldn’t give a firm explanation for that tingling I got on my back after I had defended my principles, nor why the tingling felt so wonderful. I just knew that it exceeded all of the other good feelings with a good margin. I didn’t want to reject Raymond’s prediction, but it seemed quite unlikely. Chocolate had lost its grip on Terry Way three years ago, but then chocolate is not exactly a psychic phenomena. Regardless, that eventual time … that sorrow.»