Theis Ørntoft (b. 1984) attended the Danish School of Writing from 2007 to 2009. He made his debut as a writer in 2009 with the poetry collection Yeah Suiten, and from then on he was recognized as one of the most distinctive voices of his generation.
For Yeah Suiten he received Denmark's largest debutant award, the Bodil and Jørgen Munch-Christensen Cultural Grant, and the poetry collection was also nominated for the Montana Literature Prize 2009.
In 2014, Theis Ørntoft published his second poetry collection, the critically acclaimed Digte 2014, for which he also received several literary prizes and nominations.
His first novel, Solar, was published in 2018. Solar is a modern adventure through Jutland forests, Copenhagen nightclubs, Fitness World, unexpected love, animal underworlds, wild sex and sunlight. And a desperate, dystopian generational novel, a hallucinated road trip and a space journey into the reptilian brain.
In 2023, Theis Ørntoft was ready with his second novel, Jordisk (Worldly) - a sprawling tale of love and work, nature and capitalism, of gold, silver, oil, marble and the slow decline of the West, but above all, of a three-generation family connected across time and space in ways they don't even realize. The work received a stunning response from the critics as well as the readers.
After two award-winning poetry collections and the dystopian novel Solar from 2018, Theis Ørntoft is back with the generational novel Worldly. Over the course of its 600 pages the novel follows a trio of siblings, developing into a story about three generations of a family across the years 1967-2036. A sprawling tale of love and work, nature and capitalism, of gold, silver, oil, marble and the slow decline of the West, but above all, of a three-generation family connected across time and space in ways they don't even realize.
Worldly is an original family portrait that depicts the time from 1967 and into the future to 2036. It is a journey from Silkeborg of the 1960s to post-9/11 New York and from there to a self-sufficient society in a future United States stricken by crisis. Ørntoft's contemporary novel tackles the deep forces that bind us to each other, to Earth and to the universe.
The novel consists of five razor-sharp mini-novels written with a compelling narrative delight that explore love, forgiveness and humanity's evolutionary and cultural history all the way back to the origins of the universe. Nothing less. The excellence is in Ørntoft's prose, which is constantly raging with infectious narrative joy when it comes to focusing on the family members portrayed in the novel.
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Excerpt
Det siges, at alt i universet forfalder. Det sker langsomt og uundgåe-ligt, på grund af naturlovene. Hvis ikke man hver dag gør et arbejde for at opretholde en given orden, vil den blive nedbrudt med tiden. Det gælder bygninger, transportmidler, haver, elektronik, solsystemer og galakser. Det gælder også menneskelige relationer. Loven synes at være i alt, og naturvidenskaben har døbt den entropien. Hver dag er fuld af små tegn på entropi; en aften læner man sig tilbage ved spisebord-et, stolens ryglæn løsner sig, og man vælter bagover. Papkasserne ude på terrassen blødgøres af eftermiddagsregnen, indtil de til sidst går i opløsning. Man kommer hjem en dag, og vandhanen er begyndt at dryppe. Det modsatte sker aldrig, en stol samler ikke sig selv, hvis blot man venter længe nok, en vandhane stopper ikke med at dryppe, før nogen reparerer den, nedbrydning og forfald er uomgængelige processer i naturen. Stuegulvene dækkes af støv, hvis ikke man gør rent, pludselig en dag er der en revne i væggen, og nogle måneder senere har revnen delt sig i to. Fugten siver ind, skænderier begynder at opstå, lige-gyldighed og irritation finder vej til samtalerne, umærkeligt, gennem gentagelser og hverdage, med en hastighed, der er hinsides den mennes-kelige forstand, måske tættere på geologiens.
Det siges, at mennesket er et destruktivt væsen. Det er ikke vanskeligt at finde eksempler på. Men mennesket er også et ordnende, organi-serende fænomen i universet. Det samler og bygger ting op, danner fællesskaber og institutioner, opfører huse og byer, bringer materien frem mod en højere orden med sine myriader af insisterende projekter, og på den måde modarbejder mennesket på forunderlig vis entropien, en af fysikkens mest grundlæggende love. Med Rheas nabo Tommy er det mere uklart, hvad der går for sig. Han samler ting i sin have, tønder, maskiner, køkkenredskaber, bilvrag, men uden at gøre noget ved dem, de står blot og forfalder yderligere. Og hvad med Rhea selv? Modarbejder hun entropien, som hun ligger der i kollektivets stue på Møn, mens hun følger en debat om leopardkampvogne på DR2 og med gru tænker tilbage på den ene gang i sit liv, hvor hun selv deltog i en lignende debat? Det var på P1, og alt hvad hun sagde, blev så flakkende og usammenhængende, hun følte sig som et ubehjælpsomt barn blandt en hær af velfungerende voksne. Måske modarbejder hun ikke univer¬sets forfald, som hun ligger der med computeren i sit skød. Men tid¬ligere på dagen rensede hun alger af husmuren og terrassen. Hun stod på trappestigen ved gavlen, med den lune forårssol i ryggen og skurede hårdt og længe på de søgrønne plamager. De havde været vanskelige at få af, og hun havde måttet lægge kræfter i. Senere, efter at have set debatten på DR2 færdig og konkluderet, at debatter måske også bare var noget ubrugeligt bras, en lille grim støj i et stort og ellers smukt kosmos, hjalp hun Hans i køkkenhaven. Det var lørdag eftermiddag. Temperaturen var for første gang i år gledet op over tyve grader. Rhea arbejdede i T-shirt. Hans kørte kompost i trillebør, hun lagde kartof¬ler, hun gravede huller som hun efterfølgende lagde de knoldede rod-frugter ned i og dækkede over med jord. I udkanten af hendes synsfelt, som et sorgløst flimmer, løb Birgittes to små børn rundt og sparkede til en bold. Rhea var vant til at have en konstant, næsten umærkelig nervøsitet løbende rundt i kroppen som en svag, ængstelig elektricitet, men lige nu var hun så rolig som det var muligt for hende at være. Hun lå på alle fire under en høj, blå himmel. Hun havde haft et par udmær-kede arbejdsuger, to større artikler var det blevet til, og begge var blevet trykt, deriblandt en om Coca-Colas slogans gennem årtierne, og om hvordan de fungerede som skiftende spejle for tiden, der omgav dem.
Børnenes gule plastikbold landede under en meter fra hende. Bir¬gitte råbte noget irettesættende, Rhea vinkede de to børn an og spar-kede bolden tilbage. Længere inde i køkkenhaven var Hans i gang med at sætte porrer. Både porrer og kartofler havde stået i drivhuset gennem vinteren og det tidlige forår, forleden var de på hans initiativ blevet flyttet udenfor i gården i kasser. Nu blev de sat ud, vist lidt sent, så vidt Rhea kunne forstå.
Birgitte sagde, at det var trist med Jena. Hun stod og så ud over den skriggule rapsmark, der stødte op til kollektivets have. Rhea greb trækassen og flyttede sig en meter længere ned mod ribsbuskene. Hun kunne høre fuglekvidderet omkring dem, det kvidrede og svirrede i hele haven, og lydene var ikke kun smukke, de var også larmende, næsten svulstige i deres filtrede intensitet.
“Hvad er det nu Jena laver?” sagde Birgitte.
Hans sagde at Jena havde arbejdet på et krisecenter i nogle år.
“Men oprindelig er hun vist uddannet pædagog.”
“Kommer hun nogensinde til at gå igen, tror du?” sagde Rhea.
Hans greb om trillebøren og flyttede den et par meter.
“Det er vist tvivlsomt,” sagde han. “Lægerne vil ikke rigtig komme med nogen prognose. Men nu er hun i det mindste vågnet op af sin koma. Og hun genkender Tao. Påstår han i hvert fald.”
“Stakkels Jena og Tao,” sagde Birgitte.
“Hvornår kommer han i dag?” sagde Rhea.
“Ved firetiden,” sagde Hans. “Jeg henter ham inde i Vordingborg.”
De genoptog arbejdet. På et tidspunkt råbte børnene på Birgitte, hun forsvandt over mod hovedhuset med dem, og Rhea og Hans fortsatte alene. Da den sidste kartoffel var lagt, gik Rhea ind i skuret og hentede en af de store tilitersvandkander. Hun trådte gummistøvlerne af og fandt ind i bryggerset, hvor hun satte kanden i bunden af den store metalvask, tændte for vandet og gik ud og tissede. Mens hun sad på toilettet og mærkede kulden fra brættet, dukkede linjen fra en sangtekst op.
Every time the sun comes up, I see trouble.
Hun huskede ikke stemmen, bare ordene og melodien.
Hun lukkede øjnene. Inde i køkkenet råbte William og Alma op; en af dem løb over trægulvet, så det buldrede, Birgitte sagde noget til dem, men hvad kunne Rhea ikke høre.
Hun gjorde sig færdig, så greb hun vandkanden fra vasken og gik ud i solskinnet. Dagen var næsten vindstille. Solen varmede, men der var stadig et strejf af kølighed i luften. Hun skråede over gårdspladsen, forbi de fire bambusser, som Hannah havde købt i Vordingborg for nylig, men ikke plantet ud endnu. Hun fortsatte forbi drivhuset, som lige nu mest af alt var et rod af opskårne spagnumposer og trækasser omgivet af kalket, beskidt glas. Oppe for enden af indkørslen passerede hun det store brændelæs, som mureren havde leveret i sidste uge. Midt ude på græsplænen lå to store bunker haveaffald og ventede på, at nogen kørte dem på genbrugsstationen. Brændenælderne i den ene bunke var begyndt at visne, men brombærrankerne i den anden bunke lå stadig og så nøjagtig lige så friske, saftige og fjendtlige ud, som hvis de stadig levede. De havde brugt en hel weekend i april på at rydde det massive tjørnekrat ud af buskadset nede ved markerne. Rhea havde foreslået at de fik sprængt rødderne væk, men Birgitte og Hannah havde insisteret på, at de selv forsøgte at grave det op. Så det havde de gjort.
Højt oppe på den blå himmel gled et fly afsted. Den hvide stribe spredte sig tykt ud efter den lille, solglimtende prik, der vel rummede omkring hundrede mennesker, hundrede kufferter og lige så mange livshistorier, tænkte hun, og mens hun så derop, krydsede flyet en an¬den, ældre stribe, der hang og gik i opløsning, så en form for skråt, hvidt kors opstod.
Every time the sun comes up, I see trouble.
Hun passerede syrenerne, der var ved at springe ud. Bierne og de an¬dre insekter summede i buskadset. Hun fortsatte forbi bunken af mur¬brokker fra skorstenen, som stadig lå og ventede på at blive organiseret. På afstand så hun Hans sidde på hug og ryge en cigaret. Han så ud til at befinde sig i overvejelser over køkkenhaven som sådan, i hvert fald blev han ved med at stirre frem for sig uden at se op, da Rhea stillede sig ved siden af ham. Hans grønne termojakke lå i græsset. Ærmerne på hans sorte Tool-T-shirt blafrede let i brisen.Excerpt - Translation
WORLDLY
By Theis Ørntoft
Sample translated by Paul Russell Garrett
THEY SAY EVERYTHING in the universe decays. Slowly and inevitably, in accordance with the laws of nature. If no effort is made each day to preserve a given order, it will break down over time. This holds true for buildings, transport, gardens, electronics, solar systems and galaxies. This also holds true for human relations. The law appears to be in everything, and science has given it the name entropy. Each day is filled with small signs of entropy; one evening you are sitting at the dining table, the back of your chair comes loose and you tumble backwards. The cardboard boxes on the terrace get drenched by the afternoon rain and eventually they start to disintegrate. You come home one day and the tap has started to drip. The opposite never happens, a chair does not reassemble itself if you wait long enough, a tap will not stop dripping until it is repaired, disintegration and decay are unavoidable processes in nature. The floors become covered in dust if you do not clean them, one day a crack suddenly appears in the wall and months later, the crack has split into two. The damp seeps in, arguments break out, apathy and annoyance work their way into conversations almost imperceptibly, through repetition and daily routine, faster than human understanding, perhaps nearer a geological one.
They say humans are destructive beings. It is not difficult to find examples of this. But humans also create order, an organising phenomenon in the universe. One that assembles and builds, creates communities and institutions, constructs houses and cities, leaves matter in a more ordered state, with its myriad of insistent projects, and in so doing, remarkably, humans counteract entropy, one of the most fundamental laws of physics. With Rhea’s neighbour Tommy, it is more uncertain what is occurring. He collects things in his garden – barrels, machines, kitchen utensils, wrecked cars – but he does nothing with them, they just sit there and fall further into disrepair. And as for Rhea? Does she counteract entropy, lying in the living room of the collective on the island of Møn, watching a debate about leopard tanks on DR2, thinking back with dread to the time she once participated in a similar debate? It was broadcast on P1, and everything she said was so fitful and so disjointed she had felt like a helpless child among an army of well-functioning adults. Lying there with her computer in her lap she might not be counteracting the decay of the universe, but earlier that day she scrubbed algae off the terrace and the side of the house. She had stood on the stepladder by the gable, with the warm spring sun on her back, scrubbing long and hard at the patches of sea green algae. It had been difficult work, she really had to put her back into it. Later, after watching the end of the debate on DR2 and concluding that debates might also be a load of useless junk, some ugly noise in a vast and otherwise beautiful cosmos, she helped Hans in the vegetable garden. It was Saturday afternoon. For the first time that year, the temperature had climbed above twenty degrees. Rhea was working in a T-shirt. Hans carted the compost around in the wheelbarrow, she planted potatoes, digging holes before carefully placing the tuberous roots inside and covering them with soil. Out of the corner of her eye, a carefree flicker, she saw Birgitte’s two young children running around kicking a ball. Rhea was used to having a constant, almost imperceptible nervousness flowing through her, a faint and apprehensive electricity, but right now, she was as calm as was possible for her. She was on her hands and knees under a tall, blue sky. The last few weeks at work had been excellent – she had written two longish articles, both of which had been published, including one about Coca-Cola slogans over the decades, and how they acted as shifting mirrors of the times.
The children’s yellow plastic ball landed less than a metre away. Birgitte shouted at them in rebuke, but Rhea simply waved at the children and kicked the ball back to them. Further along in the garden, Hans was planting leeks. The leeks and the potatoes had been in the greenhouse all winter and early spring. The other day, on his initiative, they moved them out into the garden in boxes. Now they were planting them, probably a little late, as far as Rhea understood.
Birgitte said it was sad news, what happened to Jena. She stood peering across the bright-yellow field of rapeseed bordering the garden of the collective. Rhea picked up the wooden box and moved another metre down towards the redcurrant bushes. She could hear the chirping of birds all around, the entire garden was alive with twittering and whirring. The sounds were not only beautiful, but they were also noisy, almost bombastic in their matted intensity.
‘What does Jena do for a living?’ Birgitte asked.
Hans told her Jena had worked at a crisis centre for some years.
‘But before that she was a qualified teacher.’
‘Do you think she’ll ever walk again?’ Rhea said.
Hans lifted the wheelbarrow and shifted it a few metres.
‘Doubtful, apparently,’ he said. ‘The doctors don’t want to give a prognosis. But at least now she’s woken up from her coma. And she recognises Tao. Or so he says.’
‘Poor Jena and Tao,’ Birgitte said.
‘What time is he getting her?’ Rhea asked.
‘Around four,’ Hans replied. ‘I’m picking him up in Vordingborg.’
They resumed their work. At one point, the children shouted at Birgitte, and she marched off with them towards the main building, leaving Rhea and Hans to continue on their own. When the last potato was planted, Rhea went into the shed to fetch one of the large, ten-litre watering jugs. She slipped out of her wellies and went into the utility room, where she placed the watering can at the bottom of the large metal sink, turned on the water and went to the bathroom for a wee. While she sat there on the cold toilet seat, a line from a song popped into her head.
Every time the sun comes up, I see trouble.
She could not remember who sang it, only the words and the melody.
She closed her eyes. In the kitchen, William and Alma were shouting; one of them stamped across the wooden floor. Birgitte said something, but Rhea could not hear what she said to them.
She finished up, grabbed the watering can from the sink and walked out into the sunshine. There was barely a breeze that day. The sun was warming, though there was still a bit of a chill in the air. She cut across the farmyard past the four bamboo trees Hannah had recently bought in Vordingborg though still not planted. She continued past the greenhouse, which was currently a jumble of empty peat moss bags and wooden boxes, enclosed by panes of dirty glass encrusted with limescale. At the end of the drive, she passed the large load of firewood that the bricklayer had delivered last week. In the middle of the lawn were two large piles of garden waste, waiting to be driven to the recycling centre. In one pile, the stinging nettles had begun to wilt, however the pile of blackberry vines looked as fresh, succulent and hostile as when still alive. An entire weekend in April had been spent clearing the dense thornbush from the scrub down by the fields. Rhea had suggested they have the roots blasted out, but Birgitte and Hannah had insisted on trying to dig them up themselves. And so they had.
High up in the deep blue sky, an airplane soared past. A thick white line tailed the small, glistening dot, which probably held a hundred suitcases, a hundred passengers, and a similar number of stories, she thought, and as she watched, the plane crossed an older line, floating, dispersing, forming a kind of diagonal white cross.
Every time the sun comes up, I see trouble.
She passed the lilacs, just coming into bloom. Bees and other insects droned in the thicket. She continued past the heap of rubble from the chimney, still waiting to be organised. In the distance, she saw Hans squatting down smoking a cigarette. He appeared to be contemplating the state of the vegetable garden as such, at any rate he stared ahead and did not look up when Rhea positioned herself next to him. His green thermal jacket lay in the grass. The sleeves of his black Tool T-shirt flapped gently in the breeze.