Often when reading narratives that decide to play with time, jumping back and forth without warning, I wonder if the book would hold up as well if it were rearranged in chronological order.
There’s a tenderness within Gazdanov that seems to recall Carson McCullers or Anne Tyler
Themes of security, honour, obligation and voyeurism converge into something enticing and engaging under Togawa’s pen.
Every story in this handsomely packaged book is written by a Nordic author whether they’re from the likes of Norway, Sweden and Iceland or all the way over in the Faroe Islands.
Lies fill rooms like smoke, choking and confusing the inhabitants while the truth slips out unnoticed, its remnants pushed into tall corners by the spreading fumes until nothing is distinguishable from the dark.
They read, they write, they drink, they have affairs, they probe, they hide, they hurtle towards their own oblivion, their lives “lived out, in order to be described”.