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Learning about the Norwegian law of jante through the lens of an independent international author.

An excerpt from The Cursed Bus and Other Writings by J Alex West, an author living in Oslo.

About the author

New Zealand born and of Hungarian and English background, lives a quiet life with his partner and son in the Lambertseter area south east of Oslo City. He enjoys reading and writing, as well as exploring the outdoors.

He occasionally works construction jobs to fund his writing habit, and is working on a short story collection that he plans to release in September.

In his words: “The Ten Rules is about my struggle with both Norwegians and non-Norwegian residents while seeking exposure as a self-published writer. It is a commentary on the conflict I have with janteloven.”

You can find The Cursed Bus and Other Writings , and more about J Alex West .

The Ten Rules

Alex, a soft spoken ponytailed man of literary fiction tastes has someone to introduce to me.

鈥業 think you鈥檒l like this guy. He listens to podcasts while milking cows and reads at night. He plays music and sees things differently. Might even want to buy your book.鈥�

Getting off the 31 bus at Hausmanns gate, voices ask me something I don鈥檛 comprehend. When I respond, one of two women in their late twenties, informs me in grammatically correct yet slurred English that the hand of cards she holds will decide my destiny. I鈥檓 instructed to pick one.

It鈥檚 a four of diamonds with a lady wearing nothing but fishnet stockings exposing herself while sucking on a finger. I raise my arms with flat hands to signify I don鈥檛 understand their intention and the women laugh. They direct the same question to a man walking behind me.

Read more: Janteloven 2.0: The Law of Jante for the Modern Age

Inside the bar, Alex introduces his friend, the librarian, who tells me he loves eastern European novelists Joseph Roth, Antal Szerb and Arthur Koestler. He gets himself a drink.

Despite working full-time, I鈥檓 never tempted to shell out 100 kroner, approximately ten euro, for a pint of beer. Rounds are rarely bought in Oslo.

Norwegians tend to be modest and it鈥檚 frowned upon to promote oneself. As an independent writer who went straight to printing rather than meddling with the expense and bureaucracy of publishing, I鈥檓 left in an awkward position.

Alex is aware of this and mentions the librarian read the twenty-seven page poetic historical rant from my novel, Tenure as a Statistician.

鈥業 enjoyed it,鈥� the librarian says, 鈥榮ome peculiar insights from that character.鈥�

He states his bookshelves are constantly expanding. I have a few recently read novels with me and offer them to the pair, who both decline and reconfirm rejection when I say I don鈥檛 want payment.

Read more: Five Norwegian Novels to Read

鈥楳oney鈥檚 not a problem for me,鈥� the librarian points out.

Alex says Tenure as a Statistician is one of the rawest reads of recent times and that his friend should buy it.

The librarian squirms as he鈥檚 taken outside his comfort zone and feels under pressure. I offer a discount.

鈥業t鈥檚 really quite okay,鈥� he says. 鈥業 have to return to my condominium in St. Hanshaugen and go back to the farm in the morning.鈥�

We leave.

I鈥檝e accumulated 300 books and must offload some for cash. Slightly west of Gr酶nland and a stone鈥檚 throw away from Brugata tram stop, a second-hand bookstore is well stocked with English titles.

The proprietor drinks coffee while sitting in a barber chair.

鈥�Hei hei,鈥� he says.

鈥�Heisann.鈥�

I decide not to continue in broken Norwegian. English is always acceptable in business trade.

鈥楢re you buying books?鈥� I say, tugging my suitcase behind.

鈥業t depends what you鈥檝e got.鈥�

鈥業 have Jose Saramago, plenty of US books, some female authors 鈥� 鈥�

鈥楲ook,鈥� he says, raising an upright palm. 鈥楲et me see for myself and I鈥檒l tell you at the end.鈥�

鈥極kay,鈥� I say, stepping back, 鈥業 merely wanted to discuss books as I鈥檓 an avid literature lover.鈥�

鈥楯ust鈥�just wait.鈥�

鈥楢s you wish.鈥�

I struggle to hide my disappointment. The owner offers me twenty-five kroner per book and shows frustration when he sees small crimps on back covers and finds inscriptions inside. He buys sixteen books and I take 400 kroner from him, spending eighty of that on Farewell Waltz 鈥� a Milan Kundera novel 鈥� and twenty-five kroner on a coffee from the shop鈥檚 reading room.

He relaxes and we converse for a couple of hours.

I visit two to three times a week to write, never buying books (which average 120 kroner) but always taking coffee. The proprietor informs me he鈥檚 going across the street for a kebab and asks if I鈥檒l watch over the shop.

Any question I have, he answers. He fills the press and requests I let him know how many cups I drink before I leave.

I convey that I鈥檓 a self-published author and while I was told Norway is about networking, I鈥檝e faced difficulty reaching people.

鈥楢ren鈥檛鈥�aren鈥檛 there any writers in Oslo you can work with?鈥� he asks.

鈥楴ot Norwegians. Too closed. I was part of an expat writers group. It started off okay, but when Trump got elected and the #metoo movement took off, it transformed. I initially showed support, but was judged on my gender, not on my work. We write to escape negative stereotyping, to avoid media scapegoating.鈥�

鈥業t鈥檚 an important issue. I鈥檓 an actor and there鈥檚 a lot of sexual harassment in the theatre.鈥�

Over two years in Oslo I鈥檇 never heard a wolf whistle. Those few times I was out, in verbal debate I鈥檇 watched as women squared up and men cowered in response. I keep this to myself.

鈥楧id any particular event give you such resentment?鈥�

鈥業 went on a writers鈥� retreat. A giving soul opened her family hytte for eight women and three men. Writing exercises were timetabled, but I couldn鈥檛 focus. There were headsets, laptops, iPads and smartphones, plus mid exercise calls conducted with children. I retired to my room and read.鈥�

鈥楧oesn鈥檛 sound that bad.鈥�

鈥極n the final night we played a getting to know each other activity, regarding incidents from our past. It began light. One woman brought up sex stories and the others followed. I was told about outdoor escapades, bondage sessions and a m茅nage-a-trois involving an escort. The middle-aged women鈥檚 competition resembled nervous girls coming together in university halls for the first time. I felt low.鈥�

鈥榊ou shouldn鈥檛 have. We鈥檙e a gender equal society.鈥�

鈥業鈥檓 not stimulated by these conversations. Not at my age.鈥�

鈥楽o, what happened?鈥�

鈥業 went back to my room and told my roommate about the discussion. He said, 鈥淚鈥檓 glad I wasn鈥檛 there,鈥� and continued writing.鈥�

鈥楢nd the third man鈥檚 take?鈥�

鈥楬e returned to our sleeping quarters. 鈥淭hat was cringy,鈥� I said. He suggested I not speak badly about our colleagues and made his bed.鈥�

鈥楳aybe you鈥檙e looking into it too much.鈥�

鈥楢fterwards I disagreed with a member who claimed 2018 would be the 鈥榊ear of the woman鈥� 鈥� a CNN journalist鈥檚 theory that if only women were published in 2018, it鈥檇 even out the gender imbalance for 2019. I asked where transgenders fit in and was hit with rebuttals that Oslo is a rape capital, and that males in Hollywood had committed sex crimes in the eighties.鈥�

鈥業 don鈥檛 see why an opinion difference would be so upsetting.鈥�

Read more: Are Norwegians Rude?

鈥業 asked the member if she鈥檇 box all sons, brothers and husbands as criminals and sentence punishment? The other two males at the table would neither back nor disagree with me 鈥� they avoided eye contact and looked down. I left.鈥�

鈥楽o that was the last straw?鈥�

鈥楴o 鈥� I wasn鈥檛 thinking. My pregnant partner was ill in hospital. I鈥檇 injured my shoulder at work. I wanted support, not chastisement. I foolishly viewed the group head鈥檚 Twitter page which was filled with vilification of men. I wrote to her asking how a responsible leader could do this.鈥�

鈥業 can鈥檛 imagine that went down well.鈥�

鈥業t didn鈥檛. She emailed me to say I鈥檇 gone public with verbal abuse of a group member 鈥� by challenging her colleague鈥檚 2018 women-only publishing theory 鈥� and violated her personal freedom of speech by targeting her Twitter comments, declaring their tolerance clashed with my bullying. So, I was banned. She signed off with, 鈥淚 wish your partner a healthy pregnancy and safe labour.鈥濃��

鈥楳aybe I know her. What鈥檚 her name?鈥�

鈥楬er name is Z 鈥� 鈥�

The door opens and a customer enters, interrupting our conversation, so I return to my writing. Despite having a collection of LPs, the same two albums are always played. Mutations by Beck, and Live from KCRW by Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds. I respect these artists musically, but the repetition starts to grate.

While the second owner is working 鈥� a jittery and less accessible individual 鈥� he smokes in his shop and leaves me alone. He also plays those same two albums.

Coffee鈥檚 raised to thirty kroner. I鈥檝e spent money, discussed literature, watched the shop, and shared experiences. Now鈥檚 the time.

鈥楬ere鈥檚 a copy of my book,鈥� I say to the first owner.

鈥業 don鈥檛 have energy to read books.鈥�

鈥榃ell, maybe you don鈥檛. But you mentioned an anthology coming out from the shop. Perhaps there鈥檚 an excerpt you could use.鈥�

鈥極kay, I鈥檒l look.鈥�

鈥楪reat, I鈥檓 going away, so I鈥檒l be in touch soon.鈥�

鈥楴o. Just wait. It鈥檒l be me contacting you. I鈥檝e got your details.鈥�

No emails have been exchanged, nor thirty kroner coffees purchased. I haven鈥檛 heard Beck or Nick Cave on vinyl for almost a year.

Even though I rarely smoke, I occasionally have a couple of cigarettes at hand when on holiday. In the Lisbon sun, a man with hard deep lined skin, a potbelly, and long hair sits smoking.

鈥楪ot a light?鈥�

He gives me a lighter and I ignite my cigarette. The smoker tells me of his walking mission around Portugal. He lives in Tj酶me, Norway and for a number of years has escaped during the summer, opposing the much more common avoidance of winter. It was the abundance of noise and flashy cars, designer boats and traffic jams which led him away.

鈥楴orway offers nothing,鈥� he says, 鈥榡ust a generous pension. I was a carpenter.鈥�

In his sixty years, he鈥檇 neither married nor had children.

鈥楾here鈥檚 too much money in Norway,鈥� he says. 鈥榊oung people don鈥檛 want to work. They don鈥檛 want to use their hands. They don鈥檛 even want to help each other.鈥�

He goes on to say Norway lets in too many people, but that most come from nothing and can鈥檛 be turned away. The Norwegian postal service 鈥� he claims 鈥� runs its office from the Czech Republic, screening and interviewing workers for salaries no Norwegian would accept.

I relate my year and a half in Norway鈥檚 construction industry. It鈥檚 the 18^th of May, which succeeds Norwegian Constitution Day, Syttende mai. He鈥檚 relieved to be outside Norway, saying he鈥檇 never fit in with the forced participation.

On my first Constitution Day, we held a party in our apartment. Aleksandra made salmon wraps and guests brought assorted dishes. Drinks were served and Norwegian flags of various sizes poked out of potted plants, vases and windows. The NRK broadcast of the parade flickered on her television.

The second, a week before the birth of our son, Theo, had me dressed in a suit and tie, attending the school celebration of her young nephews.

Yet, on the third 鈥� the day before this conversation 鈥� I stayed inside and read my book. The Lambertseter marching band filed past our balcony where I held Theo up so he could see and hear the horns. That was the extent of my festivity. Aleksandra dressed him in a festdrakt and went to the city.

Over a two euro litre of beer, the smoker sums up his position.

鈥楾he adventure of Thor Heyerdahl and Roald Amundsen has been replaced by oil wealth, Swedish influenced political correctness, and Americanised fashion. When everyone鈥檚 rich and the state lets no one starve, empathy disappears and curiosity fades. That鈥檚 what happened to Norway.鈥�

He鈥檚 one of few Norwegians I鈥檝e encountered with the ability of cultural introspection. I offer him a copy of my book.

鈥業鈥檒l pay for it. How about twenty euro?鈥�

鈥楻别补濒濒测?鈥�

鈥極f course. I love reading and how will you go forward if no one supports you?鈥�

In three years, he鈥檚 the third Norwegian to exchange money for my 376 page creation.

I鈥檓 touched.

—

Brushing my teeth with the door open, I recognise a man leaving his room.

鈥業 sat next to you on the plane.鈥�

鈥楢h yes, you were always sleeping,鈥� he says.

At the breakfast table, he explains he鈥檚 a professor of Norwegian literature.

I reveal my favourite Norwegian novels are The Birds by Tarjei Vesaas, A House in Norway by Vigdis Hjorth and Hunger by Knut Hamsun, all read in translation. He鈥檚 overjoyed with our conversation.

鈥榊es, and the black and white film version of Hunger is a must watch鈥�Doppler is such a clever book鈥�Knausgaard is the world鈥檚 greatest living writer鈥�Vesaas is a genius of the human heart鈥�Hjorth is highly intelligent鈥�Gaarder an underrated philosopher鈥�Seierstad has a strong eye and isn鈥檛 afraid of stating the facts鈥�Petterson鈥檚 books are true Norwegian gems, especially Out Stealing Horses.鈥�

I tell him I was reading Jens Bj酶rneboe鈥檚 The Sharks at a caf茅, when a worker exclaimed 鈥淚 love that book, pity he鈥檚 a misogynist鈥� and bared angry white teeth when I said, 鈥渉e can鈥檛 be a misogynist, he鈥檚 dead.鈥濃��

鈥楢hhh yes鈥�Bj酶rneboe, wonderful, so wonderful. But you must try Dag Solstad鈥�won many awards. Ibsen is my favourite, along with Undset. But there are hundreds of greats. Hundreds!鈥�

鈥楬ave you ever read the Danish-Norwegian Aksel Sandemose?鈥�

鈥楢hh, fantastic writer.鈥�

鈥楳y partner dismisses janteloven as dated. I see it everywhere in Norwegian psyche. Do you?鈥�

鈥極f course. It鈥檚 very important. We鈥檙e great believers in fairness.鈥�

I enjoy his enthusiasm, although unrevealing of Sandemose mocking society, and without negative criticism of any Norwegian writer, I鈥檓 sceptical.

鈥榃hat foreign literature do you read?鈥� I ask.

鈥極h, a bit of Swedish, some Danish. I enjoy Icelandic sagas鈥�

鈥楢nything outside of Scandinavia?鈥�

鈥楴辞.鈥�

鈥楢merican, French, English, or Russian?鈥�

鈥楴o, I鈥檓 not interested.鈥�

I stroke my chin, 鈥業鈥檓 meeting someone in town, so maybe I鈥檒l see you after.鈥�

鈥榊es, yes, a day of walking and beer and then more walking for me,鈥� he laughs.

Later, I鈥檓 sitting in the common area with Lucas, a friend of mine living in Lisbon, when the professor leaves his room and approaches him.

鈥榃here are you from?鈥�

鈥楥补苍补诲补.鈥�

鈥楥anada, oh that鈥檚 okay.鈥�

鈥榃here鈥檚 not okay?鈥� I ask.

鈥楢尘别谤颈肠补.鈥�

鈥業 like Trump,鈥� Lucas says.

鈥榊ou鈥檙e joking,鈥� he replies, leaving before a confrontation.

鈥楲ucas, it worries me a professor of literature judges one by nationality.鈥�

鈥業鈥檓 from academia. With certain nations it鈥檚 commonplace. Don鈥檛 pretend to be so na茂ve.鈥�

A couple of days pass. I don鈥檛 encounter the professor until checking in for our co-incidental departing flight. He greets me and we chat.

鈥業 enjoyed having my own room at the hostel,鈥� I say.

鈥極h yes, me too. Privacy is important. And I don鈥檛 do well with hotels. I don鈥檛 like rich people.鈥�

鈥楢re you going back to teach immediately?鈥�

鈥楴o, I have a huge new campervan so I鈥檒l take it around Norway. After, I鈥檒l head to my hytte for a few days鈥� relaxation.鈥�

Clearing security together, I take a seat in the crowded departure lounge and wipe sweat from my brow.

鈥業 have one of my books left. Would you like a complimentary copy? If not, perhaps someone in your department may be curious to read it.鈥�

His cheekbones raise showing uneven teeth and he shakes his head side to side.

鈥楩rom the front to the rear of my campervan, I have a whole shelf of novels to read. I don鈥檛 need more books.鈥�

Airborne, I stretch my legs and cradle down the aisle, noting the professor reading a Lisbon tourist brochure.

He looks up, 鈥業 finished my crime thriller, and this is all I have to read.鈥�

I open my mouth and say nothing, stretching my knees to my stomach and returning to my seat.

Janteloven. By offering the academic the opportunity to experience my work, I was breaking all rules of jante, aside from number eight.

The ten rules state: 

#1 You're not to think you are anything special 鈥� by presenting my work as a creator the rule is broken

#2 You're not to think you are as good as we are 鈥� as a creator, to a teacher of creativity the rule is broken

#3 You're not to think you are smarter than we are 鈥� as an outsider offering an insider an opportunity to learn something new, the rule is broken

#4 You're not to imagine yourself better than we are 鈥� see answer to #3

#5 You're not to think you know more than we do 鈥� see answer to #3

#6 You're not to think you are more important than we are 鈥� see answer to #2

#7 You're not to think you are good at anything 鈥� see answer to #3

#8 You're not to laugh at us 鈥� unless the internal laughter at an academic of literature of such a high position with no curiosity counts, rule #8 unbroken

#9 You're not to think anyone cares about you 鈥�see answer to #3

#10 You're not to think you can teach us anything 鈥� see answer to #3 

The wheels hit the tarmac. I can never live with janteloven. I can only reside.

Back in Norway, my home lies in the rooms of my apartment and the forest outside my door. I鈥檝e lost all interest in communicating with new people and curiosity for things unknown. I鈥檒l only  talk when necessary. There鈥檚 no time for informality.

I won鈥檛 bother anyone, but I will speak the language.

Reluctantly, I鈥檓 becoming Norwegian.

My son, dear Theo. What can I do? I have no choice. I hope when you鈥檙e an adult it鈥檒l be different, but I鈥檓 not sure anything changes.

I love you.

—

A year and a half after my meeting with Alex and the librarian, I鈥檓 invited to speak at a writer鈥檚 festival in T酶nsberg, 100 kilometres south of Oslo. The offer is generous: return train travel, festival entrance, two meal tokens, and two drink tokens.

I manage a lift down with the librarian, the first time I鈥檝e seen him since that night, eighteen months earlier. I settle my nerves with successive beers and give Alex one of my meal tokens.

I鈥檓 to deliver a presentation on my novel and recent transcription of my grandfather鈥檚 war diaries, Spitfires and Spots. When the announcer mentions I鈥檒l be presenting a book written in English, fifteen or so people leave and four remain: Alex, the librarian, plus the librarian鈥檚 brother and girlfriend. I speak to the small crowd. Two younger Norwegian women enter halfway through and stay till the end.

Later I鈥檓 scheduled to participate in a debate. I told the organiser my Norwegian is too poor for a debate and he said English would be no problem. The librarian buys me a stout and I give him a copy of my book.

I learn the debate on publishing and self-publishing pros and cons is to be bi-lingual, my rebuttals in English, theirs in Norwegian.

鈥業 have already lost this debate,鈥� I tell the crowd, 鈥榖ut I鈥檒l do my best.鈥�

The discussion is awkward and pointless.

—

is the writer of one novel Tenure As A Statistician and one collection of essays,  He is also the transcriber of his grandfather's war diaries Spitfires and Spots, which detail five years of the life of an RAF fighter pilot during World War 2.