Jens Meijen The Light Years

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Press:

‘The Light Years takes place in the near future. The temperatures have surged. Those who can have moved north, while the rest languish in cities that are only decaying. Meijen’s world is the current one on speed, in

which today’s quirks have taken on a neurotic character.’ –Knack

‘The Light Years fits seamlessly in the line of compelling dystopias by George Orwell (1984), Aldous Huxley (A Brave New World) and Margaret Atwood (The Handmaid’s Tale). In his outstanding debut novel, Meijen shows us “a black hole that has erased reality.”’ – Tzum

JENS MEIJEN (b. 1996) is a writer and PhD researcher in political science. He is also a journalist and literary critic for Humo and editor of the literary magazine DW B. He was Belgium’s first Young Poet Laureate. With his debut poetry collection Xenomorf (2019), he won the C. Buddingh’ Prize and was nominated for the Poetry Debut Prize Aan Zee.

A scintillating, cerebral novel, shortlisted for the Prix Fintro for Dutch-language literature

During a sweltering heatwave, a couple in their early thirties receives a hermit crab in a mysterious post package. Not long before, a friend announced that she is expecting, which reawakens old grief in both of them. They live in a claustrophobic world where the rich have left for the cooler north and drones maintain public order. Despite the stifling heat, they go on bike rides with their friends, host lavish, alcohol-fuelled parties and philosophize about how different everything could have been, about time travel, investments in outer space, and the colonization of other planets. Meanwhile, the couple’s almost obsessive search for the crab’s origins takes them to mouldy cellars, online self-help forums, virtual realities and parched forests. They also return to their old neighbourhood, where, just a stone’s throw from an old coal mine, they dream about what the future could look like.

World rights: De Bezige Bij – Novel – 240 pages – August 2021 –English and Catalan sample translation available

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Fragment The Light Years, Jens Meijen

The doorbell rings. I pick up the intercom and ask who it is. Silence. I go downstairs to check, my flipflops slapping against every step. In the vestibule of the apartment building, right before the mailboxes, there’s a pitch-black box. There is a HANDLE WITH CARE sticker on the top and, next to it, a National Postal Service label—one of Amazon’s many subsidiaries. No sender details. I pick it up—not heavy, but unwieldy—and carry it upstairs. Something seems to be sloshing around inside it with every step, like a flat stone in water. You’re waiting in the doorway. I go inside and put the box down on the table. We both stand there looking at it for a moment.

‘Open it,’ you say. I don’t move. ‘What, you think it’s a bomb or something?’

It’s not impossible, actually, although I imagine there are better, cheaper and more efficient ways to get rid of us, if someone wanted to do that. You fold it open. The pungent tang of fish fills the room. Inside the box is a plastic tub with some water in it containing a large, fat hermit crab. His shell is grayish brown and all scratched up, his legs a dull orange. The animal regards us with beady eyes mounted on two skinny

stalks, makes a clicking noise, blows a saliva bubble from what is probably his mouth. The creature seems ancient, but maybe it’s

just dried out. ‘This must be some kind of joke,’ I say quietly. We text our friends to ask who pulled this stunt. Dimitri sends back the video for a song called “Crab Rave” that features an entire army of crabs dancing to the music. Our friends think we’re joking. They have no idea what we’re talking about.

‘What should we do with it?’ you ask.

‘Cook it,’ I grin, and you roll your eyes. We look over at the hermit crab. We think he’s looking at us, too. Hard to tell.

‘We have to get him a tank,’ you say.

‘Yeah, like in those seafood restaurants,’ I say. ‘A tank for this guy must be pretty expensive. And what do they even eat?’

‘We can’t just leave him like this.’

‘We’ve already used up almost all of our water allowance. All those plants of yours are constantly thirsty…’

You cross your arms. ‘They don’t need that much. We’ll just pay extra. Or I’ll drink a little less.’

Translation by Emma Rault This translation was made possible by PEN Català and Flanders Literature