I’m studying my sophmore year of high-school Swedish. My assignment due tomorrow is about Karin Boye‘s short story Min son blir inte snickare (“My son won’t become a carpenter”). These excerpts* are just truly beautiful:
Samma stygn som en gång förr, bara mycket starkare och med en lite bitter giftverkan av hoppslöshet, gick genom hjärtat på honom.
The same suture from before, only sharper and dipped in a little poison of hopelessness, went through his heart.
Hans vaknande ungdom kom med ett nytt allvarsdigert medvetande om att det fanns något som hette framtid.
His burgeoning youth dawned on him with a new and overwhelming realization, that there was something called the future.
Han blev tung i bröstet av det där tjocka som kallas längtan.
His chest was filled with that smog called longing.
* All translations my own.