My Brother And His Brother by Håkan LindquistMy Brother And His Brother by Håkan Lindquist

My Brother And His Brother

byHåkan Lindquist

Paperback | March 1, 2017

Pricing and Purchase Info

$19.15 online 
$22.50 list price save 14%
Earn 96 plum® points

Prices and offers may vary in store


In stock online

Ships free on orders over $25

Available in stores


"My Brother and His Brother" tells the story of 18 year-old Jonas, who throughout his teenage years has been trying to find out about Paul, the brother who died before he was born. Eventually, Jonas discovers that Paul had an intense love affair with another boy during the last year of his life. His search for truth is related like a mystery where there are loose ends, clues and cliff hangers. A love story that continues. Håkan Lindquist's debut novel received critical acclaim when it first appeared in Sweden in 1993. It won the Prix Littéraire Bordelaise de Lunetterie when it was published in French in 2002. "My Brother and His Brother" has been translated into twelve languages.
Håkan Lindquist was born in Oskarshamn, a small harbor town on the southeast coast of Sweden; it is the setting for his debut novel, the critically acclaimed "My Brother and His Brother". The Book received a literary award - Prix Littéraire de la Bordelaise de Lunetterie - in 2002, when it was first published in France. Lindquist has w...
Title:My Brother And His BrotherFormat:PaperbackDimensions:176 pages, 7.5 × 5.25 × 0.68 inPublished:March 1, 2017Publisher:Bruno Gmuender GmbHLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:3959852525

ISBN - 13:9783959852524

Look for similar items by category:


Read from the Book

There are five hundred and two days between the last day of your life and the first day of mine. Still, you have always been present, more or less.My first true image of you was the school photograph that used to stand on top of the television in the living room. You are a thirteen-year-old boy who looks like my mother. Your hair is rather long, well groomed and dark. Just like Mother's. You don't smile in the picture. You don't look at me. Instead, your eyes are focused on something far beyond the camera and the schoolmates. I am an almost three-year-old boy standing in front of the television set looking up at your picture. The balcony door by my side is open. Flakes of snow find their way into the warmth. They whirl around your picture before they reach the floor and melt."Who's that?" I ask my parents."It's your brother," Mother replies, closing the balcony door. "It's your brother Paul.""He died before you were born," Father explains.But I'm cold and much too small to understand.I am looking at your picture. Sometimes, if I'm sad, it seems you are sad too. When I'm happy, I believe I can see a secret smile on your lips.I was standing there looking at the picture of you. I couldn't comprehend that you were my brother and that you were dead. It was a thought much too abstract for me. My family meant Mother, Father, and myself. You were still just a thought. Or, maybe, a wish.When I grew older-this must have been when I started to school-I began to ask my parents about you. I wanted to know who you were, what you had done, with whom you had played. For you must have played, Paul, you were just a child when you died."Paul was so nice," Mother told me. And she was using the voice she'd use when she told me stories. "He was so clever. He liked painting and drawing. Everybody liked him. The teachers at school, the schoolmates, the kids on the street. They all liked him. And they were all so sad when he died, so very sad.""Did all his classmates come to the funeral?" I asked."No. Not all. Just some of his closest friends. They'd had some ceremony at school already-I believe it was the day before the funeral-but the church was still full.""Why did he die?""You know why," she said slowly. "I've told you a hundred times.""But still," I begged. "I want you to tell me just once more. I want to hear it.""He was hit by the train and died instantly. It was all very sudden.""No," I said. "Not like that. Tell me like you used to tell me.""Paul liked to go to the forest. He loved watching the animals and the flowers and trees. He was always hoping he'd meet some wild creature-""Did he ever meet fox cubs?" I interrupted.Mother smiled. "Yes, one morning when he was up very early. Stefan and I had just waked up when Paul got home. He was laughing and yelling when he came through the door. 'Wake up! Wake up!' he yelled and entered our bedroom. He sat down on the side of the bed and began telling us about the fox cubs.""How old was he then?""Eleven or twelve, I guess. And he told us about his walk in the forest. He had sat down on some old fallen tree-trunk when suddenly he heard a whining sound. At first he got scared, he told us, but he was so curious. So Paul climbed up on a big rock so that he could see better, and so that he would be safe, I guess. And right there, just below the big rock, he saw the three little fox cubs playing outside their burrow.""That must have made him happy, didn't it?""Yes," said Mother, sounding a bit sad. "It made him very happy."The day he died he was also out in the forest. In the morning, at breakfast, he told us he'd go for a long walk. He hoped he would see something new, something he'd never seen before. I made him a sandwich and gave him a thermos with something to drink. And before he left I reminded him of the compass. In case he got lost. 'Cause the forest at the other side of the road is very large, you see.""What happened next?""Then . then Paul did something very dangerous, something you must never do. Remember that. You see, he got up on the railroad track, and when the train came he was thinking of something else. Maybe he had spotted an animal or something. And so he didn't hear the train, and he was hit, and died.""Did it hurt?" I asked.Mother shook her head. "I don't think it did. It was so sudden. And then, you don't have time to feel any pain."After a while she continued, but now her voice was different."It was the twenty-first of July the year before you were born," she said, but it sounded as if she were talking to herself. "It was, by the way, the first day man walked on the moon. I remember feeling distressed in the early afternoon. Uneasy, in some way. Stefan was out in the kitchen washing the dishes. He had the radio on, and he was singing along with a song they played quite often that summer. 'It's the time of the season, when your love runs high . ' And then the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and two policemen were standing there. They asked to come in."I didn't understand why they had come until we all stood in the kitchen. 'Has something happened to Paul?' I asked. One of the officers looked down at the floor. The other one nodded and said, 'Your son has been involved in a very serious accident.' But I still couldn't understand what he'd said. The radio was on. He told us Paul was dead. I yelled out: 'Turn off the bloody radio!' Then suddenly it was all so quiet, so horribly quiet. All I could hear was Stefan sobbing."After Mother's story the apartment wasn't quite the same. It felt different. Almost unreal.Imagine this, I've had a brother who has lived here, in this place we call our home. A brother who has moved around in this apartment, who has laughed and played here. A brother who has talked with my mother and my father, and spent a great deal of time with them.Imagine this, I've had a brother who once lived in the room I call my own.

Editorial Reviews

" ... this novel immediately establishes its creator as one of the luminaries of contemporary gay literature. A short novel with only six main characters, its richness teases the reader's mind long after closing its covers. The book is definitely a keeper." Lambda Literary