File:Holmstadengen - våningshuset til M.J. Dahl.jpg

Norsk bokmål: Hjemmet til Totenåsens apostel er preget av et vemodig vakkert forfall. Jeg kjenner selv på dette vemodet. Vinduet ved sofakroken i finstua med utsyn til Mjøsa er det øverste til venstre. Vinduet nedenfor er hvor Dahl hadde sitt soverom og kontor. I andre etasje sov hans mor, far og søster. Vinduet nederst på gavlveggen er kjøkkenvinduet, hvor han skuet utover grenda.

Stedet virker fremmedartet for vår verden, som om det ikke lenger hører hjemme her. På samme vis kjenner jeg det. Snart har utsendingene for AKIS (avanserte konkurranse-industrielle system) fra Kolbu utført sitt oppdrag, og plassert deres seiersmonument over en storslagen rural grendekultur nedenfor hvor låven var på Grythengen. Prikken over i-en på hva som for meg markerer sluttpunktet på et langvarig forfall, som skyggevokteren av herr Fossemøllens skygge. Forfallet startet med etterkrigsgenerasjonen og den amerikanske søppelkulturen de innførte til grenda. Ingen har skildret dette forfallet bedre enn den nordamerikanske askenasijøden James Howard Kunstler. Jeg vil derfor la ham avslutte dette avskjedsbrevet fra Øverskreien.

“Across the rural northeast, where I live, the countryside is littered with new houses. It was good farmland until recently. On every country road, every unpaved lane, every former cowpath, stand new houses, and each one is somebody’s version of the American Dream. Most are simple raised ranches based on tried-and-true formulas – plans conceived originally in the 1950s, not rethought since then, and sold ten thousand times over.

These housing “products” represent a triumph of mass merchandising over regional building traditions, of salesmanship over civilization. You can be sure the same houses have been built along a highway strip outside Fresno, California, as at the edge of a swamp in Pahokee, Florida, and on the blizzard-blown fringes of St. Cloud, Minnesota. They might be anywhere. The places they stand are just different versions of nowhere, because these houses exist in no specific relation to anything except the road and the power cable. Electric lighting has reduced the windows to lame gestures. Tradition comes prepackaged as screw-on aluminium shutters, vinyl clapboards, perhaps a phony cupola on the roof ridge, or a plastic pediment over the door – tribute, in sad vestiges, to a lost past from which nearly all connections have been severed. There they sit on their one- or two- or half-acre parcels of land – the scruffy lawns littered with the jetsam of a consumerist religion (broken tricycles, junk cars, torn plastic wading pools) – these dwellings of a proud and sovereign people. If the ordinary house of our time seems like a joke, remember that it expresses the spirit of our age. The question, then, is: what kind of joke represents the spirit of our age? And the answer is: a joke on ourselves.” – James Howard Kunstler, “The Geography of Nowhere”, page 166

“In America, with its superabundance of cheap land, simple property laws, social mobility, mania for profit, zest for practical invention, and Bible-drunk sense of history, the yearning to escape industrialism expressed itself as a renewed search for Eden. America reinvented that paradise, described so briefly and vaguely in the book of genesis, called it Suburbia, and put it for sale.” – James Howard Kunstler, “The Geography of Nowhere”, page 37

“The physical envelope of the house itself no longer connects their lives to the outside in any active way; rather, it seals them off from it. The outside world has become an abstraction filtered through television, just as the weather is an abstraction filtered through air conditioning.

The car, of course, is the other connection to the outside world, but to be precise it connects the inhabitants to the inside of their car, not to the outside world per se. The outside world is only an element for moving through, as submarines move through water.” – James Howard Kunstler, “The Geography of Nowhere”, page 167

“But this new wealth was spent on suburban houses, and on cars to get to them and appliances to put in them. It transformed American (and Norwegian) culture. The private world of home and family was everything; the public realm was out. When middle-class families took a vacation, it meant a trip by car to a national park, or perhaps to a second home by a mountain lake or beach. Most of all, it meant getting away from other people. Americans (and Norwegians) no longer wished to congregate in “playgrounds” like Atlantic City where most of the action took place in public places with crowds of strangers pressing in. Those still in the habit went to new playgrounds like Miami Beach, where the decor was not threadbare and the weather nicer. If you wanted the public realm in postwar America (and Norway), there was TV.” — James Howard Kunstler, “The Geography of Nowhere: The Rise and Decline of America’s Man-Made Landscape”, page 229

“I don’t believe automobile suburbs are an adequate replacement for cities, since the motive force behind suburbia has been the exaltation of privacy and the elimination of the public realm. Where city life optimizes the possibility of contact between people, and especially different kinds of people, the suburb strives to eliminate precisely that kind of human contact.” – James Howard Kunstler, “The Geography of Nowhere: The Rise and Decline of America’s Man-Made Landscape”, page 189

“The Dream, more specifically, was a detached home on a sacred plot of earth in a rural setting, unbesmirched by the industry that made the home possible; a place where one could play at cultivating the soil without having to rely on husbandry for a livelihood; a place that was, most of all, not the city.” – James Howard Kunstler, “The Geography of Nowhere: The Rise and Decline of America’s Man-Made Landscape”, page 101