Unlike many prizes that hinge on naming a single celebrated author or compiling a list of best sellers, the Nobel Prize in Literature distinguishes itself through its unpredictable nature. Over the years, the prize has slipped past the expected favorites and the most widely read authors, while champions of quieter, less commercial voices have risen to prominence. Swedish scholars often prioritize books from writers who have spent years outside the spectacle of fairs and festivals, uncovering literary regions that have been overlooked. In this way, writers who have become essential to our reading pleasure — such as South African JM Coetzee, Belarusian Svetlana Aleksiéich, and Polish Olga Tokarczuk — find their way into our cultural repertoire.
By virtue of high standards and a taste for the unexpected, two kinds of Nobel laureates can be observed: those whose identity and publications the world eagerly anticipates, and those who broaden our literary imagination with work that grows more meaningful after time passes. Among the former are English writer Kazuo Ishiguro, and French authors Annie Ernaux and Patrick Modiano, whose careers continue to invite renewed reflection and discussion. The lesson here is first about curiosity, second about confirming our preferences.
Norway’s Jon Fosse, born in Haugesund in 1959, appears as a surprise winner, though the mystery is not entirely transparent. The reception often reflects the fact that only a portion of his work has been translated in some circles, while in other countries he is widely recognized and repeatedly honored. A full portrait of Fosse’s literary project is difficult to capture from a single, small sample such as a concise volume that sits outside of his established theater tradition.
What follows is not a comprehensive dossier but a cautious invitation to engage with a brief excerpt. It serves as a dip into the sea, a simple temperature check that invites a closer look at the author’s broader oeuvre.
The excerpt reveals a distinctive pattern of repetition arranged in a precise rhythm. Spanish readers may hear echoes of Thomas Bernhard, yet Fosse’s voice is less concentrated and more lyrical, weaving around biblical cadence and occasional puns. This blend creates a mood of religiosity that quietly grounds the narrative, where language sometimes strains to dance but retains a fragile, poetic beauty. The prose awakens a heightened, almost hyperreal sensitivity to ordinary moments, especially scenes that center on birth, first encounters, and the weight of everyday objects shaped by lived experience.
Morning and Afternoon establishes its mood from the outset. It traces the early and late moments in the life of a fisherman named Johannes. What matters most are not only the boundaries of life and death but the hours surrounding birth and the moment of passing, leaving readers to wonder whether they are witnessing a transcendent shift or a final disruption in the fabric of the world. The narrative invites us to listen closely to what unfolds in between, rather than to concentrate on a single climactic turn.
At first glance, the prolongation of Johannes’s dying might seem deliberate, yet the author invites quick recognition of the process itself. The plot follows the fisherman through confusion and a subtle sense that life persists even as it seems to fade. It resembles the moment in a dream when the boundary between wakefulness and sleep becomes blurred, and waking feels uncertain.
The book builds a bridge between a baby who cares only for strangers and an elderly man who loves the shadows of a world that no longer exists. In between, the everyday arc of life unfolds with work, love, marriage, and the quiet possibility of belonging to a society that provides support. The recurring refrain about pensions underscores a practical gratitude that accompanies ordinary citizenship.
Fosse guides readers through Johannes’s life in a temporality governed by sudden turns and sensory shifts. The narrative becomes a phantasmagoric dance of encounters and disagreements, a landscape that nods to the sensibilities of Angela Thirkell, Charles Dickens, and echoes of Japanese literature.
The slow, repetitive machinery of the book aims to measure what it costs to say goodbye to the ordinary world. There are poignant moments: a final voyage on a friend’s boat, the unsent love that lingers, reconciliations with a spouse, and the moment when the consciousness shifts from the living man to the woman who recognizes the corpse. It closes with a quiet farewell to the things that once defined daily life: the weight of routine, the simple acts that shape memory.
What stands out most is the willingness to speak about the intimate mysteries of existence without recourse to grand theories or overblown script. The voice of a fisherman, humble and sincere, offers a language that is clear and unpretentious, inviting readers to attend closely to the subtleties of daily faith and doubt.