“Han fattas mig.”
One of the compliments I often get on my writing is just that — my writing. My word choices, my sentence structure, my imagery, my rhythm, my originality, etc. Now, I never thought I’d reach a point where I’d become that good at the craft itself, especially not in a language that’s not even my native tongue. Partly because of imposter syndrome but also because I’m usually such a perfectionist that I never thought I’d dare to write something that doesn’t strictly and stiltedly follow the rules.
Sentence fragments? Words used in unusual contexts? Odd or highly specific imagery? No can do!
Except, clearly, I can. I should, even.
And I want to share one of the monumental pieces of writing that made me realise that. And it’s not even a whole work. It’s just one sentence, really:
Now, that probably looks a bit weird to those of you who don’t understand Swedish, so let me explain.
That’s a quote from the children’s book Ronja the Robber’s Daughter written by the famous Swedish author Astrid Lindgren. It was published back in 1981 and while I didn’t actually read the book as a kid, I DID watch the Swedish live-action movie many times. But, even then, it took until my adult years to fully grasp the utter and heart-breaking brilliance of that quote.
For some context, the book/movie is about Ronja who, surprise surprise, is the young daughter of a robber chief. That quote is said by her father, Mattis, when one of the old robbers of their clan suddenly dies. Now, this old robber, Skalle-Per (uh… I guess the translation would be Bald Pete?), is clearly a father figure for Mattis. A wise old man who, while gloriously snarky, is also incredibly nurturing and emotionally mature. Which stands in stark contrast to Mattis who is the somewhat traditionally dominant, macho man. He HAS to be, on account of being the chief for a clan of rough and tough robbers. They, in many ways, complete each other, where Skalle-Per is kind, thoughtful, and sensible while Mattis is brash, violent, and impulsive.
Now, predictably, when Skalle-Per dies, Mattis throws a full-on tantrum. The kind that shows just how inexperienced he is with dealing with emotions without Skalle-Per to help him work through them. And, since the whole problem is that Skalle-Per is now dead? Mattis has absolutely no idea what to do.
He starts pacing back and forth, crying, flailing his arms, and yelling things like: “He’s always been here! He’s always existed, and now he doesn’t!” And no amount of calming words from his wife soothes him and, eventually, he says that line:
And there is no direct translation I can give you that fully conveys the amount of raw, almost childlike, grief in that one sentence. This sentence was the one that made me realise that following the rules doesn’t matter because, strictly speaking, this one doesn’t. The words used are unusual to the point where they’re even a little odd at first glance but, once you look deeper, also so incredibly impactful.
The rough translation would probably be “I miss him” but, as said, that doesn’t convey the sheer desperation that those words do in Swedish. First of all, it throws the words around, completely changing the focus and weight of the sentence. “Han” is “he” and “mig” is “I.” So saying “I miss him” reverses the order where the emphasis SHOULD be put on “him” but the main subject of the sentence now becomes “I” (i.e. less about the loss and more about how “I” am feeling). In “Han fattas mig” the “he” is the most important part.
Second, you have the word “fattas” which, yes, directly translated means “missing.” But not the kind of missing that we Swedes normally use for grief. We have another word for that called “saknar.” If you miss someone who has died, you’d say: “Jag saknar honom.” Which is basically the same as the English “I miss him.” The word “fattas” is for a completely different context — a much more mundane one, with almost no emotional stakes. It’s what we use when a piece is missing or something is lacking a required component. Kind of like you would say: “This stew is missing something” when it doesn’t taste the way you want it to. But it can also mean “lost” as in “there’s one puzzle piece missing.”
So when Mattis says those words, he doesn’t say “I miss him.” He’s saying: “He is a part of me and he is now missing,” and “he is a part of me and I lost him,” and “he is a part of me and now there is a hole where he used to be.”
He is saying: “I will never be complete again.”
Because “fattas” is also the word we use when something is missing and the thing won’t be complete until you add it/return it/get it back. And, in this case, since the man in question is dead, you know Mattis will never get that chance. He will never be whole again. Which, sure, is a rather terrifying take on grief, but also not an untrue one. Grief will lessen over time, but the loss will still be there.
And this isn’t me doing some sort of complex linguistic analysis — I don’t have to. Because it’s all there. It’s so simple yet so effective. And yet, somehow, no one had really thought to use the word “fattas” to describe grief before. Because it’s just a simple and mundane word we use for entirely different things, not big, painful emotions, right? Except Astrid Lindgren did. And while she no doubt did so to make it easier for children to grasp the concept — since most kids can relate to the feeling of losing something in the context of “fattas,” which is much more direct and real than the elusive emotion of “saknar” — it also changes how an adult can view grief and loss.
Not even “I lost him” can fully encompass the absolute BRUTALITY of the grief found in the sentence “Han fattas mig.”
And that is why I give fewer and fewer fucks about the rules. Now, obviously, I doubt I’ll ever come up with something as brilliant as this sentence (it honestly rocks me to my core sometimes) BUT it’s worth trying. It’s worth being creative and experiment with the words you know and in what order you place them. Just maybe, you’ll end up with something really cool. That’s not to say you should ignore any and all rules, but it’s okay to play around. It’s okay to do the unexpected.
I think it’s important to remember that. Writing is creative. We write to express things — to find ways to describe and explain complex emotions, grand adventures, and sweeping love stories. It connect us and gives us a way to share our experiences, thoughts, and feelings. And, sometimes, the set boundaries won’t be enough. Sometimes, we might just need someone to look at how we describe grief and go: “I can make it simpler and, at the same time, so much more painful.”
And it doesn’t always have to be complex. It doesn’t have to be difficult words and purple prose. Sometimes, all you need is three words so easy that a child can understand them and, somehow, you will describe a sense of loss so deep and so fundamental to that character that you KNOW that they will never be the same ever again.
So experiment. Be bold. And, above all else, have fun.
And, one final heart-wrenching fact to wrap this all up: The actor who played Skalle-Per — Allan Edwall — was in almost ALL of the movies/shows based on Astrid Lindgren’s books. He played different roles, of course, but he was a staple — synonymous with her works. And, when the actor died back in 1997, Astrid Lindgren was asked how she was handling the loss and her reply was the same as Mattis’s:
