Harald in six years while he sat in a small cabin in the woods of Värmland together with Astrid and wrote on a gigantic work in four volumes about industrialism and the conditions of modern life: 'Jærnet' (the iron) 'Guldet' (the gold),'Ilden' (the fire) and 'Ordet' (the word). But he died a few days after the first book in the series was released. Tom Kristensen wrote:Harald Kidde took his poetic vocation so serious that he worked himself to death. Of his great works about Värmland appeared only the ecstatic novel Jærnet. Had he completed the work, he might have been recognized by a world that filled with devotion would have fallen to his knees. Now it was only the small Danish community. They love this man, that steep and faithfully stood tall, portraying virtues that are about to go off course. An introvert in an extrovert time, a romantic in a realistic time, a religious skeptic in an equally skeptical irreligious time, a poet who has time to wait for the coming of a mankind that turns the gaze inward again. Fellow Danish author Kai Hoffmann wrote of Jærnet:Perhaps never in history a writer sacrificed so immensely to work on a novel as Kidde sacrificed on this last book, 'Jærnet'. Its focused ecstasy got even hardened professors of literature, experienced readers and spruce blockers to gasp for air. 'Helten' is the monumental work in Kiddes production, but in 'Jærnet', which I confess I've never managed to read to the end, Harald was culminating, not as an artist, but through a performance that one might call a genial fiasco. Strength is weakness and weakness is strength. That has inspired this work of a late-born scion of a powerful tribe. Kidde, now in the home of the poets, was also backward in our present reality – a kind of ambassador from the dead. A solemn singer for all the lonely places and humble minds. When he put the pen away, he burst and died. Christian Rimestad wrote: We, who knew Harald Kidde, was deeply astonished, that our friend in all the hours we did not see him, went about as far away from us as he could come, in regions where his character was cowarded and shaken into trances and pain. We could only begin to grasp the nature of it, because when we saw him, we always met the same comfortable