My shining example is a hero. My shining example is a fat little man who can fly, because he has a propeller on his back. A fat little man who lives in a shack on the roof, above the family Erikson in Stockholm. My example’s name is Karlsson on the Roof. And although he himself claims to be the son of the Sandman and Mama Mia, we all know that his real mother is Astrid Lindgren.
No story can do without a hero. It is the hero who drags you through the boring parts, it is for the hero’s sake that you read on. And not because of the sublime style, the gorgeous symbolism or – yet another expression that makes me gag – the fine eye for detail.
In Stendhal’s The Black and the Red, there are whole chapters both gristly and boring. The reason we keep reading is because the hero, Julien Sorel, has been brought to life so well. We keep reading because we want to go on with Julien Sorel, until he is beheaded, and preferably beyond that.
One of the most successful heroes in the history of literature is named Karlsson on the Roof. He can easily compete with the great names - which you may fill in yourself - and many a hero dwindles away when compared with Karlsson. In his vicinity the Great Gatsby shrivels to the Little Gatsby, and Albert Egberts becomes a measly dwarf.
What is Karlsson’s secret? Why is he so irresistible? What makes him even better than those other heroes of Astrid Lindgren’s, including Mischievous Meg, Pippi Longstockings and the children of Noisy Village? Karlsson is funny. Karlsson is extremely funny. He is – as far as I can tell - the funniest hero in literature. He made me laugh on an average of once every page, and that over a total of 351 pages. No other book can hold a candle to that. But there’s more.
Karlsson can’t do a thing. Except fly. But he wants to do everything, and he is always claiming to be the best. In addition, he has a tendency to parasitize others, the Erikson family in this case, while making them feel that they are the parasites. Read with me, if you will: “Miss Mouse stood bent over the pan with a meatball in her hand. She was just about to pop it in her mouth, but when she caught sight of Karlsson she stopped and stared at him, nailed to the spot.
“‘Never have I seen such a greedy girl in all my life,’ Karlsson shouted. And he zoomed right down at her, tore the meatball out of her hand, gulped it down and zipped back up to the ceiling.
“But then Miss Mouse came to life. She shrieked, grabbed a carpet-beater and began chasing Karlsson around the room.” Miss Mouse is the household help, and if only for the sake of this Miss Mouse - whose nickname is the House Mouse - you would do well not to miss the Karlsson books. But more about the House Mouse later on.
In earlier essays, I have mentioned the importance of credibility. Is a fat little man who can fly and who lives on the roof credible? No, but the brilliant thing about Astrid Lindgren is that she knows that herself. The Eriksons, with the exception of Erik, have a great deal of trouble believing in Karlsson. And when they are finally left with no choice but to admit his existence, they are horrified by the irrevocable consequences of having a Karlsson exist in one’s immediate surroundings.
Lindgren renders the incredible credible by emphasizing how strange it is that fat little flying men exist. That it is, in fact, most terribly strange, but that terribly strange things do have a way of happening in this world. After a few chapters, the reader - like the Eriksons – has capitulated. Karlsson is not a figment of the imagination. Karlsson exists. Even though Karlsson says of himself: “If I am a figment, then I’ll have you know that I happen to be the best figment in the world.” No: anyone who makes a claim like that cannot be a figment.

The book begins in a very normal street, in a very normal house, inhabited by a very normal family by the name of Erikson. It’s quite crafty of Lindgren to emphasize how normal this family is, because a few pages later she introduces something singularly abnormal: Karlsson.
He makes his appearance one day, hovering before the bedroom window of the youngest son, Erik Erikson. It goes like this: “‘What’s your name?’ Karlsson asked.
“‘Erik,’ Erik said. ‘My name is Erik Erikson.’ “‘Well, how about that, the world is such a strange and diverse place – my own name happens to be Karlsson, and nothing else. Hey there, Erik!’ “‘Hey there, Karlsson,’ Erik said.
“‘How old are you?’ Karlsson asked.
“‘Seven,’ Erik said.
“’Excellent, keep it up,’ Karlsson replied.
“Then he threw one of his fat little legs across the windowsill and climbed into Erik’s room.” Pay close attention to that “excellent, keep it up.” That is Karlsson to a tee. I love it. How good it would be if, in the course of conversation, people would occasionally say to each other: “Excellent, keep it up.” It would not only make discourse more lively, but also raise it to a higher plane.
Karlsson has a slight anarchistic bent. But his anarchy is not a matter of principle, thank God for that. No, Karlsson is the polar opposite of the man of principle. His slight anarchistic bent is based solely on the realization that, in this world, if you can’t do anything, but at the same time still hope to eat a meatball or two, you’ll have to behave in a slightly anarchistic fashion.
Before the first chapter has even come to a close, Karlsson has destroyed Erik’s toy steam locomotive.
“‘It blew up,’ Karlsson said excitedly, as though no better trick could be expected of a steam engine. “Hey, look, it really blew up! What a bang!’ “But Erik couldn’t feel the slightest twinge of joy. Tears came to his eyes.” Karlsson then goes on to comfort Erik by telling him that he has at least a thousand toy locomotives in his little house on the roof, and that Erik is more than welcome to have one. Karlsson is not only slightly anarchistic, he is also a notorious liar. But he would never admit it himself, of course, he’s far too notorious for that. When Erik finally gets to see Karlsson’s house and wonders aloud where all the toy locomotives are, Karlsson tells him that, strangely enough, they all exploded the day before.
The sign on his door says: KARLSSON ON THE ROOF. THE BEST KARLSSON IN THE WORLD.
In fact, therein lies Karlsson’s sole principle: the principle that Karlsson on the Roof is the best Karlsson in the world. And those who are not prone to immediately agree with that principle he combats in three different ways: through tirritation, figuration and bamboozling. Tirritation is far worse than irritation, should you have thought it was only a typing error. What figuration means Karlsson never explains, but the story demonstrates that it is a tad worse than tirritation. And bamboozling, that is the worst of all.
Which brings us back to the unforgettable House Mouse. She is one of those unfortunate souls who fails to see right away that Karlsson is the best Karlsson in the world. Which is why Karlsson feels compelled to tirritate her, to figurate and to bamboozle. The high points of the book.
Erik’s mother has fallen ill and must stay in bed, his father is on a business trip, and his brother and sister are in the hospital with the German measles. The House Mouse is therefore hired to baby-sit Erik. She is the household help, but she doesn’t want to be referred to as the household help, she wants to be called the head of the household. Erik had hoped that the House Mouse would be young and sweet, but she is far from that. During her job interview, she announces that she has taken care of children before. And then both Erik and the reader are struck with an intense feeling of pity for those children who the House Mouse has taken care of in the past.
Erik and the House Mouse are left in each other’s company. That very first afternoon the House Mouse starts baking raisin rolls, but it soon turns out that she is planning to eat them all herself. She places the tray of raisin buns on the windowsill to cool, but has failed to take Karlsson into account. While Erik keeps the House Mouse busy, Karlsson steals the raisin rolls and, when the tray is completely empty, tosses a nickel through the open window. The Eriksons’ apartment is on the top floor.
“Miss Mouse flew into a rage.
“‘I don’t understand,’ she shrieked. ‘I don’t understand this at all.’ “‘Yes, I can see that,’ Erik said. ‘But don’t let it worry you too much: you’ve got people who are smart, and people who aren’t.’”

Karlsson is a rare example of successful slapstick in bound form. That Modern Times is shown at children’s matinees these days is no proof that it is a juvenile film. That Karlsson is found in the children’s section of the library is no proof that children are the only ones who should read about Karlsson.
Karlsson is for all ages. Even for so-called adults. There are some things that can only be called so. Adult is one of them. A writer is also something I believe you can only be called, but that is a story in itself.
Karlsson does not undergo development, I should probably warn you right away. He remains exactly who he was at the start: the best Karlsson in the world. That is highly unfortunate for all those who feel that a literary hero must undergo development. For that reason I hope Karlsson will never become the subject of academic study, for that would certainly do Karlsson little good. After all, let’s admit it: most books about books are so gruesome that they make that the assembled bullfights of the world look like a children’s puppet theater. Karlsson should not be written about. Karlsson should be read.
One final example of his irresistible logic. Karlsson has just pulled a geranium out of its pot, roots and all, and thrown it out the window.
“‘Boy, I can just see the look on Mom’s face when she finds out that you pulled her geranium out of the pot,’ Erik complained. ‘And what if some old man had been walking down the street and suddenly got it on his head. What do you think he would have to say about that?’ “‘“Thank you very much, my good Karlsson,” of course,’ Karlsson assured him. ‘“Thank you very much, my good Karlsson, because at least you pulled the geranium out by the roots and didn’t toss it down, pot and all… the way Erik’s weird mother wanted you to.”’ “‘She didn’t want you to do that at all,’ Erik protested, ‘what are you talking about?’ “Karlsson took the pit out of his mouth, put it in the pot and carefully spread a little soil over it.
“‘That’s exactly what she wanted,’ Karlsson insisted. ‘That mother of yours is only happy as long as the geranium stays in its pot. She couldn’t care less about it endangering the lives of poor little old men on the street. The life of one single little man is of no consequence to her, as long as no one yanks her geranium out of the pot’ “He gazed at Erik intently.” Undoubtedly there are those who do not find this absolutely brilliant, but I honestly wonder whether there is any hope for them.
When you write, people inevitably ask you about your influences. Now I can reveal to you that I never thought “why not write something of my own?” after reading Nabokov, Pavese or Thomas Mann. If that is what you thought, then you are mistaken.
If books ever influenced me, they were the books about Karlsson. For the best Karlsson in the world is a true brother.