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Jim McCrory

A Letter to Claes Hylinger: Swedish Author

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday 1 August 2026 at 19:00

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Image kindly provided by Jessica Pamp on Unsplash

A Letter to Claes Hylinger

Swedish Author

Dear Mr Hylinger,

You do not know me, but your writing has accompanied me for more than thirty years.

In 1994, my daughter's  Swedish pen pal invited our family to Målsryd, situated close to Borås, Sweden for a holiday. Wanting to make the most of the visit, I spent the previous year teaching myself Swedish. I worked through a Linguaphone course and another self-study book whose title I gradually forgot.

At the end of that forgotten book was a short bilingual story. It was simple, almost understated, about a schoolteacher trying to understand what his pupils were thinking. It touched something deep within me. Long after I had forgotten most of the vocabulary and grammar, that little story remained and It would return to my mind from time to time over the years, refusing to disappear.

Eventually I forgot where I had read it.

For decades I searched for it. Google never seemed able to help, despite my returning to the search again and again. I even convinced myself it might have been written by August Strindberg and contacted scholars who specialised in his work. None of the leads came to anything.

The irony is that, although I lost the story, I never lost what it awakened in me.

As a younger man I had never encountered the personal essay as a literary form. Yet your story quietly revealed the kind of writing I longed to do. Years later I completed an MA in Creative Writing, where essay writing formed part of the course. Those essays became my strongest work, and I realised I had finally found my own voice as a writer.

Only a week ago I decided to ask ChatGPT for help. At first it drew a blank, but I persisted, refining the search again and again. Eventually it identified the story as Dagar och nätter i Paris och Göteborg by Claes Hylinger. It also identified the language course where I had first encountered it: Hugo Swedish in Three Months (1992 edition). Within days I found a copy on eBay.

When it arrived, I turned to the final pages and there it was.

After more than thirty years, I was reunited with the story that had quietly influenced the course of my writing life.

You could never have known that a brief piece included in a Swedish language textbook would influence someone living across the North Sea. Yet that is exactly what happened. Your writing planted a seed that took many years to flower. 

I simply wanted to write and say thank you.

With warm regards,

Jim McCrory
Scotland

Days and nights in Paris and Gothenburg

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Jim McCrory

The Voice Betrays the Heart: August Strindberg

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday 19 July 2025 at 16:35

“It's wonderful how, the moment you talk about God and love, your voice becomes hard”

 

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There’s a haunting moment in August Strindberg’s novel The Father, where a character says,

  “It's wonderful how, the moment you talk about God and love, your voice becomes hard, and your eyes fill with hatred. No, Margret, you certainly haven't the true faith.”

The power of this line lies not only in its irony, but in its psychological clarity. It exposes a jarring contradiction: that someone can invoke the vocabulary of heaven while radiating the temperature of Venus. Margret speaks of God and love—concepts that ought to soften the heart and lower the voice—but her words clang like iron gates. Her expression hardens, her voice sharpens. Instead of warmth, there's winter in her eyes.

Strindberg, ever the critic of spiritual and familial pretence, holds up a mirror here—not to Margret alone, but to any who weaponize piety. Faith becomes less a wellspring and more a performance; less a light to live by, more a spotlight to control others. His character’s rebuke— “you certainly haven’t the true faith”—lands not as insult, but as diagnosis.

It’s the genius of fiction to crystallize complex truths into a single breath.

This idea resurfaced for me while watching a conversation between Jordan Peterson and Peter Kreeft. They touched on a sobering point: that many who reject belief in God do so not from intellectual rebellion, but from wounds inflicted by those who claimed to represent Him. Religious trauma often wears the face of an apparent Christlike figure. Who reveals a dark secret. The degree of child abuse in religious institutions testify to this fact. Compounded by the act of brushing such under the carpet to protect the “brand”, but only to have the sins coming back to bite with crippling lawsuits.

In these cases, the religious organisation becomes less sanctuary and more stagecraft. But divine justice is not so easily outwitted. The ancient words still echo, heavy with warning:

“But if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in Me to stumble, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.” Matthew 18:6, BSB.

The trauma isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s simply the coldness of a leader whose actions betray his creed. It's one thing to preach Christlike love, another to practise it when no one is watching. Harshness in the name of holiness is a strange heresy—and perhaps the most enduring kind.


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