Maybe Swedes don't like Swedish literature. Too morbid, duckpondèsque, and suicidal, perhaps. If all those writers keep committing suicide, there won't be many left to write the books.
In fact, the man who has taken the initiative to get authors to talk about their books here in Uppsala is a Bangladeshi by birth, Anisur Rahman. So I've listened to Lars Sund and Carina Burman, both locals, though I missed Tranströmer and his reader the other day (Tranströmer is in a wheelchair and cannot speak after a stroke, so someone else has to read out his poetry).
As for miserablists, that's not the monopoly of the Swedes. The term has been used about the Flemish author Louis Paul Boon. But he cheered himself up by being a part-time paedophile, in thought, if not in deed; which is probably why he never won the Nobel.
I do read a few British authors now and again, not least to make sure I don't forget the finesses of the language. But it is true that those looking outwards into the big wide world will tend to neglect home-grown produce.
Herman Bang's surname is a bit of a misnomer, I feel. I don't get the feeling he was very active regarding legover activities. More one of the boys, so to speak. There are plenty of other Danish writers such as Peter Adolphsen, a contemporary author who writes mercifully short novels. Although if you think the Bang is hard going, don't try Per Højholt. His "Auricula" would really freak you out. He actually has about ten paragraphs in that 350-page novel. And has dispensed with chapters.