My Men by Victoria Kielland (translated by Damion Searls)

“My Men” is the story of a young Norwegian woman who moves to America towards the end of the 19th century, changes her name and establishes a new life. Eventually she's discovered to be a serial killer responsible for the deaths of at least 14 people. Kielland reimagines this historical case of Belle Gunness from the inside of her troubled consciousness. Yet, rather than poring over gory details or building a thickly plotted story of dread, the author traces the shifting emotions of this woman whose life is driven by loss, loneliness, bad faith and bad logic. There's a bewitching nature to the poetic prose style which is at once claustrophobic and achingly tender. Rather than offering an explanation for why and how this occurred, this novel is moreover concerned with meticulously recording the state of its heroine's mind.

There's a cumulative sense of Belle's bleakly abiding aloneness in the world and fractured relations to other people. It's noted how “Bella stared into life and saw herself lying all alone at the bottom” and “The world was a whole, she could see it, but it was like she was standing just outside it and there was nothing she could do but cry.” This sense of complete separateness seems to foster a sense of absolute independence where she is wholly self-reliant and governed by her own sense of righteousness. In doing so the story traces how she comes to feel fully justified in her murderous actions: “Her carnivorous heart was exactly that simple, moments of closeness, a big black wound. A whole European map of dead men.” It makes for a very unsettling and strangely haunting read.

Is Mother Dead by Vigdis Hjorth (translated by Charlotte Barslund)

There are few subjects more tender and heartbreaking than a child whose parents have rejected them. Being cast out like that can crush someone's self esteem and make them feel like their place in the world is a mistake. It can also be liberating and allow someone to develop an identity separate from what their family has designated for them. So it's interesting how Vigdis Hjorth gives a unique point of view of such a case in “Is Mother Dead”. The story is told from the perspective of successful artist Johanna who has recently returned to her native Norway after a long absence. A major retrospective of her artwork will soon be shown and it's causing her to reflect on the remaining family that she's been estranged from for many years. She's aware her mother and sister inhabit the same city she's returned to and she doggedly attempts to make contact. When her advances are ignored and rejected Johanna begins stalking her mother. The reasons for this family rift and the painful feelings surrounding it are gradually revealed as we follow her determination to get some answers.

The prose are imbued with a lowkey solemnity and simmering resentment because she's not part of her family's life anymore. Having been labelled the black sheep, she prides herself on her independence and even at one point remarks “it feels like I am of the earth and not of Mum”. She's built a career, been in a loving marriage until her husband's death and has a thriving adult son of her own. However, there's a longing for a connection with her mother and she's desperate to know what her mother's life is like now. She's nervously aware that if her mother dies she might not even be informed of this fact. Though this novel is literally full of questions it feels notable that there's no question mark in the title. In a sense Johanna is haunting the old life she's left behind. She visits places from her youth and tries to reconcile the old woman she now spies on with the woman she knew growing up. At one point she realises her mother “had placed a ghost where she imagined me to be and she was terrified of it”.

So why can't Johanna simply part ways with her family who no longer want any contact with her? Johanna ponders this herself as she's doing this against her better judgement but she states “I yearn for something unobtainable... so why can't I just accept the situation as it is, my common sense already has, but pig-headedness makes me write to Mum, I don't understand myself.” And she realises that “I've come to terms with losing my mum, but I can't come to terms with Mum coming to terms with losing her daughter”. Since her mother refuses to discuss it with her, Johanna must become almost like a detective piecing together an answer from what she observes of her mother and what she remembers. The primary reasons for Johanna becoming an outcast are clear but the deeper motivations and pain her mother carries are harder to discern. Alongside this psychological mystery, there is a tension throughout the novel as we wonder will she actually speak to her mother again and can there be a reconciliation after all this time?

I feel like what you get out of this novel depends somewhat on what you're willing to put into it. On the surface it can feel repetitive and empty since Johanna is left to speculate about so much. However, seriously pondering the deeper questions at the heart of this book makes it feel achingly resonant. What obligation should a parent feel towards their child and vice versa? Is it possible to overcome fundamental differences of opinion about how life should be lived in order to maintain a family bond? How do you negotiate levels of personal privacy between family members without creating emotional distance? Is it a betrayal of trust to speak about private family matters publicly or express them in art?

One of the reasons for the break between mother and daughter is a series of paintings by Johanna called 'Mother and Child' which were exhibited in her family's home town. Her family interpreted this artwork as unfairly representing their lives whereas Johanna didn't necessarily intend them to be autobiographical. At first I found it frustrating that these paintings aren't described in much detail – nor is Johanna's body of artwork or technique though she's apparently prominent enough to deserve a retrospective exhibit. However, as she describes her memories it's clear there's a fundamental difference in how she interprets the world versus how her family views it. When she was younger Johanna drew pictures which were expressive and symbolic whereas her parents felt they should represent life as closely as possible like a photograph. This difference in point of view also extends to how they interpret a familial sense of duty and degrees of emotional connection to one another. The rift this eventually causes between them is shown to be quietly explosive as we follow Johanna's obsessive investigation.

No matter how close or distant you are from your own family these are issues which everyone can relate to some level. I think it's so interesting how with family we always get to a point where we wonder: am I the weird one or are they the weird ones? And this question is teasingly probed in this novel where on one level Johanna's behaviour is erratic and intrusive. But, on the other hand, her family's absolute rejection and refusal to speak to her is perversely cruel and viciously cold. Communication is key and this is something her family won't engage in but Johanna feels “There are so many crucial questions we never ask except in our most private moments, so many issues we avoid discussing even though the people who could contribute to clarification and information are still alive.” She witnesses her mother and sister routinely visit her father's grave. However, they ignore her though she's still alive and so close by. It's always felt like a mysterious tragedy to me that people can devote themselves so strongly to the memory of a family member who has died while ignoring the family they still have. I found it moving how this novel dynamically ponders this question.

ti amo by Hanne Ørstavik (translated by Martin Aitken)

Norwegian author Hanne Ørstavik (author of the brilliant novella “Love”) gives an account of a protagonist whose life closely resembles her own as the author of a number of novels. The story follows the time between the narrator’s husband receiving a terminal cancer diagnosis and his death in this frank and incredibly moving story. What makes it feel all the more immediate and personal is that she writes it in the second person present tense speaking directly to her husband. She describes the emotional and physical trials they face as well as the blurred line between her deep devotion to him and a desire to continue living after his inevitable end. Every moment begins to feel precious as “death has become an attendant presence, everything's just the way it is, I'm here with you and soon you won't be here any more.” It's both a confession about this hard reality and an exquisitely composed hymn to their love.

One of the most striking things in this account are moments of unexpected humour which feel all the more buoyant because the couple are aware that the possibility of tragedy is so near. It's what makes their experience so relatable and real. Equally, the narrator is caught off guard by the passion she feels for another man during a work trip to Mexico. She naturally feels guilty about this but it's admirable she states her honest feelings and reaction to a highly pressurised situation. Though grief can be overwhelming, there is also the human drive to connect and create amidst devastating loss. While this tale is naturally a sorrowful and sobering read, it's also exquisitely beautiful how Ørstavik captures the final fleeting months of this rare relationship.

The Child by Kjersti A Skomsvold (translated by Martin Aitken)

Since the experience of pregnancy and motherhood is one I can never have it makes me all the more interested in reading about it. I've never even felt inclined to be a father but I want to understand the process and emotional repercussions of parenthood. Kjersti A Skomsvold is a Norwegian author who has published an utterly captivating, beautifully-written and poignant account of a woman in the first several months following the birth of her second child. What's so compelling about her point of view is the way her identity transforms amidst this new responsibility but retains a consistency. It's like the tectonic plates of her personality shift to lay bare the core of her being with all her passion, strengths and insecurities. She's an author who endeavours to keep writing amidst the responsibilities and emotional strain of her life. At the same time it's fascinating how her experience is paired against others such as her great aunt who is experiencing dementia, a writer friend who committed suicide and her partner Bo with whom she's had a complicated relationship. Through her interactions we glean an awareness of all the stages of life experienced at once as the roles she plays constantly switch and are paired against the lives of others. 

The narrative is composed of short impressionistic accounts of her daily experiences, memories and reflections. They are also directed at the child so it's written in the second person making it feel like both a confidential letter to her progeny and a hymn expressing her innermost soul. It gives an immediacy to this book which is emotional and moving. This style also creates a narrative tension as we only gradually come to understand her past and the circumstances of her life. I found it poignant how when comparing herself to her contemporaries she feels that she's come late to things like having a stable relationship and giving birth to children: “Becoming adult is so very much harder when you haven't the strength.” Gradually we come to understand her abiding feeling of loneliness and depression which have also hindered her ability to fully connect with others: “it's because of loneliness I can hear if my heart's beating. Even with a child inside me I was filled with loneliness, and after the child had come out I felt empty. Loneliness lingered like a phantom pain.” I appreciate how she honestly divulges the mystery of these emotions and allows us to connect with them without feeling the need to try to explain them. Though the obsessions and minute sentiments which attend a volatile relationship grew trying to read about at some later sections of the book I did find many observations very powerful such as “I thought love meant discovering a new person, but it's more discovering yourself, and that's painful.”

It's interesting to compare this novel with Jessie Greengrass' “Sight” which also describes a very close-to-the-core account of motherhood with all its trials and uncertainties. While these bravely honest and confessional testimonies yield a lot of insights they also present a consciously limited, subjective view of these characters which left me longing to understand some of the more practical circumstances of their lives. For instance, I wondered how Skomsvold's unnamed protagonist managed economically amidst the responsibilities of having children but we never get details about this. I'd have appreciated it if the author would have dropped in a line or two about whether she had savings or whether her writing enables her to fully subsist. As a point of comparison “Ghost in the Throat” by Doireann Ni Ghriofa gives a very intimate account of motherhood while also making the reader aware of the challenging financial strain of having a growing family. However, this was only a slight reservation I had about “The Child” because overall it's a very thoughtful, moving and poetic account full of candour and insights.

The Other Name: Septology I-II by Jon Fosse (translated by Damion Searls)

A clichéd complaint about modern art is that it’s something a child could do – as if little or no thought has gone into the process behind it. In a way, “The Other Name” might serve as an extended riposte to this dismissive attitude as it details in 351 densely-packed pages an artist agonizing over two intersecting lines he’s painted on a canvass. Of course, it’s about much more than that but this is the primary dilemma at the centre of this deeply introspective novel. Asle is an artist living a sparse monastic existence in a small Norwegian village and his only real social contact is with a neighbour that clears the snow from his driveway. But he also occasionally encounters a doppelganger, an alcoholic artist also named Asle who lives some distance away and who he finds near death passed out in a snow drift. As Asle travels to assist his precarious double he moves in and out of memories and fantasies in a way which fascinatingly traverses the usual boundaries of time and space. The result is a moving and complex meditation on the meaning of art, faith and relationships.

It’s interesting how Asle’s thoughts frequently twist around themselves, repeat or meander in a way which can feel initially frustrating, but all of a sudden they take on a meaning which is profound and revelatory. For instance, a long strange scene where Asle observes two young people frolicking outside results in the statement “We’re making each other like children again” and helped me consider how deep intimacy between adults can inspire a kind of reversion to infancy in our behaviour and manner. It’s a poignant insight into the vulnerability and innocence adults still carry inside them and which is little shown in ordinary life but might be revealed to a significant other. However, the act of watching this couple also takes on strange and sinister undertones as it becomes an act of voyeurism whereby the pair alternately become Asle and his deceased wife or Asle with Asle himself. It’s as if he frequently wanders into shifting new landscapes which blend intense memory with fantasy.

It’s not only Asle who exists in a strange sort of duality, but a woman he meets and who takes charge of his double’s dog also takes on multiple identities. Her name might be Guro or Silje or Silja, but no matter how many times she introduces herself or refers to their previous intimacy Asle is consistency mystified by her. This might be another form of casual misogyny which is also made in that earlier scene when the pair he observes engage in hurried intercourse: “she liked it, even when she was saying she didn’t like it she was actually liking it, she says and he says yes well that’s how it often is”. This attitude is alarming but I’m guessing Asle’s obliviousness to the thoughts and feelings of women is part of his macho disregard for the reality of women and preferred reverence for the idea of them (as in the form of his late wife.)

The doppelganger acts as a distressed acquaintance who Asle strives to save, but he’s also a way of enacting an intense conversation with oneself. In some ways the narrator is an idealized self: faithful, sober, intensely dedicated to his art and lives a simple thrifty lifestyle. Yet he’s also emotionally repressed and actively blocks any thought or mention of his deceased wife. Whereas his double is reckless, unproductive and wants nothing more than to drink. Thus he represents an entirely different way of dealing with insurmountable emotion. While it appears nothing much occurs over the course of the novel Asle gradually works backward to a stage where these dualities can achieve some form of cohesion. There’s an extended sequence where he imaginatively journeys with his sister into places their mother forbid and the novel ends with a shocking and significantly traumatic memory. I’m still really uncertain how I feel about the final few pages. I can’t decide if it’s a crass way of explaining Asle’s psychological complexity or if it adds an interesting way of viewing everything that proceeded it.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed the thoughtful space this story patiently opens up over the course of the novel. It’s a book that you definitely need to be in the mood for, but I found it very relaxing to read and I especially appreciate the way it considers the creative process. Asle occasionally refers to a hidden light that can be seen in successful artwork and to realize this vision in a painting “it’s not the painter who sees, it’s something else seeing through the painter, and it’s like this something is trapped in the picture and speaks silently from it, and it might be one single brushstroke that makes the picture able to speak like that, and it’s impossible to understand”. Fosse’s reverence for the deep engagement and compelling mystery of art whether it’s in paintings or literature is poignantly portrayed in this soulful and searching story.

Love by Hanne Ørstavik (translated by Martin Aitken)

There’s an aching feeling of loneliness as well as a foreboding sense of danger throughout Hanne Ørstavik’s short, razor-sharp novel “Love”. The story concerns Vibeke and her son Jon who have recently moved to small town in the north of Norway. The narrative continuously switches focus between the mother and son’s points of view without any line breaks or indications that it’s changing. This produces the curious effect of a synchronicity and connection between the two so the border between them appears to blur. But, as the novel continues, it becomes apparent there’s a dangerous disconnect as they embark on independent journeys deep into the night meeting strangers and driving separately through the freezing near-empty landscape. Jon is about to turn nine years old and he’s expecting his mother to bake him a cake to celebrate, but her mind is decidedly elsewhere. Although there’s little plot, a quiet tension hums throughout each section making this a deeply meditative, haunting and curiously mesmerising novel.

I was reminded of Virginia Woolf’s novel “The Waves” when reading this book because there’s an intense interiority to both the mother and son’s sections – as well as a sense of ceaseless flow between them. However, there’s a pared down style to Ørstavik’s prose in her use of many straight-forward declarative sentences which is very different from Woolf’s more poetically charged writing. Nevertheless, I was struck by certain lines such as when Vibeke declares to herself “I’ll sheathe us both in speechless intimacy, until we’re ready for the abruptness of words.” This is the sort of subconscious speech similar to something Rhoda would say in Woolf’s novel.

Even though this novel mostly isn’t narrated in the first person, it feels like we’re so deeply embedded in the consciousness of each character as we’re aware of their fleeting sensory experiences. There are numerous succinctly accurate observations such as “He can feel in his nose when he breathes in how cold it is.” Anyone who has been in an extremely cold climate knows this feeling. I also felt a deep sympathy for the characters especially when Vibeke feels drawn to the solitude of reading: “She feels the lure of sitting with a good book, a big thick one of the kind that leave an impression stronger and realer than life itself.” It’s interesting how the novel plays out the tension each character feels of wanting to be alone but also desiring to make a meaningful connection with some unknown person.

Ørstavik also has a masterful way of depicting how reality is mixed with her characters’ imaginations. Jon frequently pictures himself engaged in some sort of adventurous battle or running from a phantasmagorical threat. Meanwhile, Vibeke continuously tests the romantic boundaries with a man named Tom she meets at a fun fair – but only in her mind. I found it so interesting coming to this novel after reading Andre Aciman’s recent “Find Me” which also presents several meaningful encounters with strangers. But in “Love” these meetings felt much more real to me because the bulk of the interactions which take place here are filled with awkward or uncertain silence. In this way the novel powerfully shows the singular way we navigate through the world and continuously negotiate our relationships with other people. It also captures an eerie sense of estrangement from those we’re supposed to be closest to.

The Looking-Glass Sisters by Gøhril Gabrielsen (translated by John Irons)

I’m not sure what it was about “The Looking-Glass Sisters” which had me excited about it several months before Peirene Press even published it. Something about a story of two sisters in an old, dilapidated house that’s isolated in the far north of Norway captured my imagination. Reading it became an especially good experience because shortly after finishing the book I went to my first Peirene Press book club. This is held in London at Persephone’s lovely bookshop. It’s been ages since my own book club disbanded so it was a pleasure being able to discuss the book in detail over wine, cheese and biscuits with a group of clever fellow readers. This novel is particularly excellent for a book club because its filled with so much ambiguity and opinions about it varied wildly amongst our group.

The novel is narrated from the point of view of a disabled woman who is dependent on the care from her sister Ragna in everyday daily tasks from eating to bathing to dressing. It’s been this way their entire lives and the women are now middle-aged. Their parents died when they were teenagers; we never know how or why they died. The sisters’ routines filled with bickering feel wholeheartedly like they’ve been exhaustively enacted over a lifetime and you quickly get the sense of how intensely intertwined the existence of these sisters has become. It’s as if they are no longer two separate bodies: “Over the years, through conflicts and confrontations, we have shaped, kneaded and formed ourselves into a lopsided, distorted yet complete organism.” This is the most perfect description for the feeling of their co-dependency and echoes the eerie sense that one cannot exist without the other. They can’t escape each other any more than they can escape their own reflection when looking in a mirror.

Or so the narrator believes. One day Ragna disrupts the claustrophobic and solitary life they share by bringing home a rather gruff man Johan. Is he an agent of chaos that destroys their relationship or a partner that could be incorporated into the household if it weren’t for the narrator’s jealousy? The answer isn’t clear because the narrative is filtered so totally through the narrator’s subjective and frequently paranoid consciousness. Having never left the house and being trapped in the physically limited routines of her day, the narrator lives primarily in her imagination. There are echoes of Charlotte Bronte's mad woman in the attic as reimagined in Jean Rhys's novel and also Charlotte Perkins Gilman's 'The Yellow Wallpaper.' Her whole understanding of the world comes from her sister, the dusty standard education text books left from her early life and library books – which the narrator must badger Ragna to exchange. Indeed, she seems made up more of words and lives more in the mind than in her physically-limited body.

I bought my copy of this novel at my local farmer's market at which Peirene sometime have a beautiful book stall.

The narrator’s fantasies do get quite intense and graphic. They veer from the heatedly sexual to the repulsively scatological to the furiously suspicious as she believes Ragna and Johan are plotting to put her away in a care home. Again, it’s never clear whether these are her projections or if they occur in reality. I appreciated the occasional respite from the narrator’s frantic descriptions and thought process when Ragna interjects some dialogue that questions her sister’s logic. There are also occasional moments when you see some real fondness between the sisters. However, most of the time, their relationship is destructive and weighted under long-standing resentments.

“The Looking-Glass Sisters” is in many ways a mesmerizing read, but it’s also highly unsettling. It’s disturbing to think that intensely co-dependent relationships between family members can break down so severely and the disturbed areas a consciousness can drift to when a life is lived entirely in the imagination. There is a sense that the narrator’s psychology can parallel our own internal lives when we believe the world to be a certain way. Rather than the disabled sister it could very well be the author speaking to the reader towards the end of the book when she states this story has been about the sisters but “also about all of us who have lapsed into laziness and fantasizing, hidden away in a room closer to the sky than the earth.” Viewing the story from this perspective it does take on a much more personal meaning. It made me consider the way in which my own imagination works in tandem with reality and the amount of dependency I have on other people. This book left me thinking. Gabrielsen is a highly intriguing writer.