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Home » POETRY » SOLITUDE, IN POOR NEIGHBORHOODS OF COPENHAGEN – Tove Ditlevsen: Until buried at Christ Church, on her childhood Vesterbro.

SOLITUDE, IN POOR NEIGHBORHOODS OF COPENHAGEN – Tove Ditlevsen: Until buried at Christ Church, on her childhood Vesterbro.

Memory, the library of the soul, from which you will draw knowledge for the rest of your life.

The area of Kødbyen, from a popular neighborhood has become the most fashionable place in Copenhagen. The Urban House multipurpose space is a cultural center, green area and hostel. Among boutiques, cafés frequented by creatives and a sparkling nightlife, here you can catch the latest trends of the city. The Øksnehallen, a multi-purpose and modular space is the fulcrum of his cultural life, with art exhibitions alternating during the year. Among the nightclubs in Kødbyen, try entering the Jolene, or experience the Kødboderne 18.

The insufficient mother in her love for her daughter, which left deep marks in her daughter’s psychic development. One of her novel was transfer into a film. She was born in Copenhagen, grewing up in the working-class neighbourhood of Vesterbro. In 1976, she died by suicide, due to an overdose of sleeping pills. Several times admitted to a psychiatric hospital, throughout her adult life, TOVE DITLEVSEN (married and divorced four times), struggled with alcohol and drug.

His father was intellectually curious, and he inspired his daughter to read. Unattached to any group, TOVE DITLEVSEN was important poet, as well as a novelist and short story writer. Her intensely personal work always reflects the loneliness of life, in the poorer quarters of Copenhagen. She moves in her writing between the autobiographical and the fictional, with a special focus on the anxiety, the pain and the adults’ mental problems.

THERE ARE MEN IN THE WORLD – There are two men in the world, who constantly cross the road. One is the one I love, the other the one who loves me. One is a nocturnal dream and lives in my dark mind, the other is at the door of my heart and I never open it. One gave me a spring of happiness that immediately disappeared; the other gave me his whole life and was never repaid for an hour. The one shudders with the song of blood where love is pure and free, the other has to do with the sad day when dreams drown. Every woman is between these two, in love and loved and pure, once every hundred years it can happen that they merge into one.

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