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The Singularity
Lyrical and devastating, The Singularity is a breathtaking study of grief, migration, and motherhood from one of Sweden’s most exciting new novelists. In an unnamed coastal city filled with refugees, the mother of a displaced family calls out her daughter’s name as she wanders the cliffside road where the child once worked. The mother searches and searches until, spent from grief, she throws herself into the sea, leaving her other children behind. Bearing witness to the suicide is another woman—on a business trip, with a swollen belly that later gives birth to a stillborn baby. In the wake of her pain, the second woman remembers other losses—of a language, a country, an identity—when once, her family fled a distant war. Balsam Karam weaves between both narratives in this formally ambitious novel and offers a fresh approach to language and aesthetic as she decenters a white European gaze. Her English-language debut, The Singularity is a powerful exploration of loss, history, and memory—an experience akin to “drinking directly from a flood of tears” ( Aftonbladet ).
200 pages, Paperback
Published January 24, 2024
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 160 reviews
October 28, 2023
The intense second novel from Balsam Karam, a children’s librarian, and Swedish writer of Kurdish ancestry. Atmospheric and elegiac, this is less conventional narrative than a series of snapshots centred on immense loss, displacement, and generational trauma. Karam's main characters are two women who are divided yet ultimately irreparably connected. One is a pregnant woman on a business trip, she’s travelled from Europe to a distant seaside resort. The nameless resort hosts wealthy, mostly-white, tourists who spend their time in its newly-built luxury hotels and upmarket restaurants close to the corniche, a winding road separating land from sea. As the visitor walks near the shore, she witnesses a woman throw herself into the water. This dying woman is a refugee, a mother who, together with her children and own mother, has been living in a makeshift tent, in a rubble-strewn, bullet-marked alley. A futile search for her missing oldest daughter has led to total despair. It’s not clear what’s happened to this teenage girl. Was she captured by the predatory men who haunt the local streets? Or did she attend a demonstration and fall foul of local authorities? Meanwhile, once again at home in Sweden, the businesswoman refuses to allow her now-dead child to be induced, convinced refusal can somehow break a wider cycle of grief and disappearance.
Karam’s narrative is plotless, rhythmic, and repetitive, sometimes literally, sometimes metaphorically. Images surface and resurface, as with the slowly-fading children abandoned in the alley, whose overlapping voices act like a chorus or song of mourning. As the setting moves to Sweden, Karam uses slashes / to distinguish between immediate reality and memory, as the Swedish woman drifts between her present in a hospital ward and visions of her childhood friend Rozia who died in war. The style changes again, as she begins to recall her family’s arrival in Sweden as political refugees in search of asylum: their struggles with racism, and attempts to adjust to a culture that refuses to meet them halfway. Karam is partly drawing on her own history here - the woman’s mother bears scars from torture that closely resemble those of Karam’s activist father; and the trauma of stillbirth echoes Karam’s own. Karam binds her fragmented episodes by invoking the idea of a black hole in which absence of gravity forces bodies together, removing the spaces in-between. Somewhere between fiction and prose poetry, I found this incredibly compelling, affecting and deeply felt. Translated by Saskia Vogel.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Fitzcarraldo for an ARC
Karam’s narrative is plotless, rhythmic, and repetitive, sometimes literally, sometimes metaphorically. Images surface and resurface, as with the slowly-fading children abandoned in the alley, whose overlapping voices act like a chorus or song of mourning. As the setting moves to Sweden, Karam uses slashes / to distinguish between immediate reality and memory, as the Swedish woman drifts between her present in a hospital ward and visions of her childhood friend Rozia who died in war. The style changes again, as she begins to recall her family’s arrival in Sweden as political refugees in search of asylum: their struggles with racism, and attempts to adjust to a culture that refuses to meet them halfway. Karam is partly drawing on her own history here - the woman’s mother bears scars from torture that closely resemble those of Karam’s activist father; and the trauma of stillbirth echoes Karam’s own. Karam binds her fragmented episodes by invoking the idea of a black hole in which absence of gravity forces bodies together, removing the spaces in-between. Somewhere between fiction and prose poetry, I found this incredibly compelling, affecting and deeply felt. Translated by Saskia Vogel.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Fitzcarraldo for an ARC
October 29, 2023
I loved the intentions and politicised stance of this work but somehow the writing felt too lax and slightly disconnected to have the visceral effect that I expected. I also felt the shifting voices worked against the intensity of the piece as there were too many resting places for me as a reader and I wanted to feel the tension racheting up without the opportunity for escape.
This is still a powerful book that humanises the refugee/migrant situation in a way that is being increasingly diluted by our venal Tory government - I'd like to see this book in many hands even if it wasn't quite the impactful piece of writing that I expected. 3.5 stars rounded up.
Thanks to Fitzcarraldo for an ARC via NetGalley
This is still a powerful book that humanises the refugee/migrant situation in a way that is being increasingly diluted by our venal Tory government - I'd like to see this book in many hands even if it wasn't quite the impactful piece of writing that I expected. 3.5 stars rounded up.
Thanks to Fitzcarraldo for an ARC via NetGalley
May 9, 2025
Longlisted for the 2025 Oxford-Weidenfeld Translation Prize!
An inventive novel that ties together three immigrant narratives, while contemplating loss.
The grandmother picked them up and held them close in sleep almost no sleep at all and then muttered that no one beyond the ruined wall wished them well and that she couldn’t bear another loss – again and again she said she couldn’t bear any more loss and even though the children didn’t understand how or why, they knew that the loss was now a part of them and that at any moment it could strike again.
The Singularity is a bleak novel, that initially has us following a mother wandering a city for her lost child, interwoven with her other children playing in the rubble, supervised by a grandmother. This first part of the novel is full of heat and decay, rats, cockroaches and crumbling buildings. Pearl, Minna, Mo, the non-disappeared kids who are in a way also lost to their mother after the event that took the Missing One, are heartbreaking. Here Balsam Karam really hammers home the reality of displacement, homelessness and loss, even if we stay kind of distant to the unnamed characters as well by the almost mythical way of narration.
This part of the novel is very atmospheric, you definitely feel the despair and degradation that being a refugee means, but this expository phase doesn’t move to a narrative soon enough in my view, even if this book is slim, I feel it kind of dragged.
The second, titular section of the book is an impressively told story of how a woman who grew up in the West, who saw a desperate act of the woman from the first section, while dealing with a miscarriage. The sentences here are alternatively set in a hospital and in the past before the woman and her family fled a war torn country.
This section reminded me a bit of Asymmetry, in how the second part mirrors some elements of the first part of the novel, like mountains, gran and other elements.
Inventive and well done!
The last section of the book is in a sense most conventional but also was most impactful for me. Here we follow in short vignettes the woman growing up in Sweden with her family. Continuous microaggressions, racism and poverty are brought to live so vividly here that it hurts.
This is an impressive read that really brings the reality of news headlines and statistics on displacement and refugees to life, 3.5 stars.
Quotes:
Grief draws in and widens the distances without the children knowing how or why, and in the bushes that no longer bloom, what is burnt pushes through the deep green and takes over; at the mouth of the alley, an orange tree no longer rises like a crown over the patch of earth where the Missing One would sit with her notebook, and down the road a neighbour no longer stops by to ask the children if they want to come along to the beach or the square for a bit.
Have the missing ever returned she says and runs a hand over the wall and the bullet holes sharp in the middle of the wall – has spilled water ever been unspilled she says and falls silent.
If the loss is present, it has for as long as she can remember been inside her and she says do you remember when the homes were demolished? as if addressing someone by her side and then I thought that was the worst thing I’d ever have to experience.
If you knew our homes were going to be demolished, why did you let us build them? If you knew that one morning they would come and take everything away, why didn’t you let the mountain rise up and give us shelter?
If the body is hers, why is it still here?
If it’s still here, why is it unfit?
it’s not reasonable to carry a child who is no longer alive, the doctor tells you
Later you ask the doctor what mother doesn’t take her own life when a child dies?
if the child leaves you physically, does that make it any less yours?
It’s your first winter in the house with the little garden, the darkness outside. Something hard hits the windows and your brother stands up, puts on his coat. After a while he comes back in, says he needs something to wipe off the dog shit from the window and the postbox. In his hand is a blue and yellow sticker that he’s torn off, like the ones you’ve seen high up on lampposts around town.
Later, your mum tells you that the first thing she was told after talking about how she had been tortured in prison was that no one would hire a person like her. One eye missing, older and not entirely fluent – it’ll be tough, the caseworker had said.
What do you have in mind for the future? your sister’s teacher asks her at the end of the term. I’d like to qualify for university your sister says happily – to study history or geography, I’m not quite sure. Afterwards she tells you that her teacher said that was brave and ambitious, but perhaps she should consider becoming a nursery assistant instead, that she’d be well-suited to it, since she’s already so considerate.
You are sixteen years old when your gran tells you about her dead children, the one she lost after only a few months and Halima, who made it to five and loved cherries and had the silkiest hair on the block. She fell ill after drinking from the well in the schoolyard she says calmly when you ask – that’s how senseless death is she says and takes you in her arms.
None of your white friends have wanted to hear any of your memories from the war. It hits you one day as you’re sitting with one of them, listening to him talk about how he used to pick berries with his grandmother as a child. He goes into minute detail, pulling out pictures from when he was in the bilberry patch in the woods, one where he is sticking out his tongue, pulling a face. Yes, but my friend Rozia was found in the rubble after a bombing, what do you think about that? you say and wait for him to respond.
An inventive novel that ties together three immigrant narratives, while contemplating loss.
The grandmother picked them up and held them close in sleep almost no sleep at all and then muttered that no one beyond the ruined wall wished them well and that she couldn’t bear another loss – again and again she said she couldn’t bear any more loss and even though the children didn’t understand how or why, they knew that the loss was now a part of them and that at any moment it could strike again.
The Singularity is a bleak novel, that initially has us following a mother wandering a city for her lost child, interwoven with her other children playing in the rubble, supervised by a grandmother. This first part of the novel is full of heat and decay, rats, cockroaches and crumbling buildings. Pearl, Minna, Mo, the non-disappeared kids who are in a way also lost to their mother after the event that took the Missing One, are heartbreaking. Here Balsam Karam really hammers home the reality of displacement, homelessness and loss, even if we stay kind of distant to the unnamed characters as well by the almost mythical way of narration.
This part of the novel is very atmospheric, you definitely feel the despair and degradation that being a refugee means, but this expository phase doesn’t move to a narrative soon enough in my view, even if this book is slim, I feel it kind of dragged.
The second, titular section of the book is an impressively told story of how a woman who grew up in the West, who saw a desperate act of the woman from the first section, while dealing with a miscarriage. The sentences here are alternatively set in a hospital and in the past before the woman and her family fled a war torn country.
This section reminded me a bit of Asymmetry, in how the second part mirrors some elements of the first part of the novel, like mountains, gran and other elements.
Inventive and well done!
The last section of the book is in a sense most conventional but also was most impactful for me. Here we follow in short vignettes the woman growing up in Sweden with her family. Continuous microaggressions, racism and poverty are brought to live so vividly here that it hurts.
This is an impressive read that really brings the reality of news headlines and statistics on displacement and refugees to life, 3.5 stars.
Quotes:
Grief draws in and widens the distances without the children knowing how or why, and in the bushes that no longer bloom, what is burnt pushes through the deep green and takes over; at the mouth of the alley, an orange tree no longer rises like a crown over the patch of earth where the Missing One would sit with her notebook, and down the road a neighbour no longer stops by to ask the children if they want to come along to the beach or the square for a bit.
Have the missing ever returned she says and runs a hand over the wall and the bullet holes sharp in the middle of the wall – has spilled water ever been unspilled she says and falls silent.
If the loss is present, it has for as long as she can remember been inside her and she says do you remember when the homes were demolished? as if addressing someone by her side and then I thought that was the worst thing I’d ever have to experience.
If you knew our homes were going to be demolished, why did you let us build them? If you knew that one morning they would come and take everything away, why didn’t you let the mountain rise up and give us shelter?
If the body is hers, why is it still here?
If it’s still here, why is it unfit?
it’s not reasonable to carry a child who is no longer alive, the doctor tells you
Later you ask the doctor what mother doesn’t take her own life when a child dies?
if the child leaves you physically, does that make it any less yours?
It’s your first winter in the house with the little garden, the darkness outside. Something hard hits the windows and your brother stands up, puts on his coat. After a while he comes back in, says he needs something to wipe off the dog shit from the window and the postbox. In his hand is a blue and yellow sticker that he’s torn off, like the ones you’ve seen high up on lampposts around town.
Later, your mum tells you that the first thing she was told after talking about how she had been tortured in prison was that no one would hire a person like her. One eye missing, older and not entirely fluent – it’ll be tough, the caseworker had said.
What do you have in mind for the future? your sister’s teacher asks her at the end of the term. I’d like to qualify for university your sister says happily – to study history or geography, I’m not quite sure. Afterwards she tells you that her teacher said that was brave and ambitious, but perhaps she should consider becoming a nursery assistant instead, that she’d be well-suited to it, since she’s already so considerate.
You are sixteen years old when your gran tells you about her dead children, the one she lost after only a few months and Halima, who made it to five and loved cherries and had the silkiest hair on the block. She fell ill after drinking from the well in the schoolyard she says calmly when you ask – that’s how senseless death is she says and takes you in her arms.
None of your white friends have wanted to hear any of your memories from the war. It hits you one day as you’re sitting with one of them, listening to him talk about how he used to pick berries with his grandmother as a child. He goes into minute detail, pulling out pictures from when he was in the bilberry patch in the woods, one where he is sticking out his tongue, pulling a face. Yes, but my friend Rozia was found in the rubble after a bombing, what do you think about that? you say and wait for him to respond.
April 10, 2024
3.5 stars
A pregnant woman is on a business trip to an unnamed city. The city is a tourist paradise, but it also bears the scars of past crises in the form of bullet-riddled walls and half-constructed buildings. Students sleep on concrete floors, and in an alleyway lives a family of refugees—as the woman herself used to be. Among the tourists and exploited workers and half-wild children of the waterside district one night, she encounters a mother searching for her missing teenage daughter. This is clearly a long-term search, and tonight it ends: the mother throws herself into the sea. Something dies within the woman as she watches this unfold.
With The Singularity (Feminist Press, 2024), Balsam Karam, a Swedish writer of Kurdish origin, makes her English-language debut in an arresting translation by Saskia Vogel. It is a story of losses handed down from mothers to daughters and of the echoes that violence and displacement exert from one generation to another. Karam's slim, three-part lyrical novel follows the fate of two different families attempting to escape their devastated homelands.
I reviewed this for The Rumpus. It's an interesting book, definitely a creative approach to telling an old story. Sometimes the creative approach was spot on, other times it faltered. The full review is here.
A pregnant woman is on a business trip to an unnamed city. The city is a tourist paradise, but it also bears the scars of past crises in the form of bullet-riddled walls and half-constructed buildings. Students sleep on concrete floors, and in an alleyway lives a family of refugees—as the woman herself used to be. Among the tourists and exploited workers and half-wild children of the waterside district one night, she encounters a mother searching for her missing teenage daughter. This is clearly a long-term search, and tonight it ends: the mother throws herself into the sea. Something dies within the woman as she watches this unfold.
With The Singularity (Feminist Press, 2024), Balsam Karam, a Swedish writer of Kurdish origin, makes her English-language debut in an arresting translation by Saskia Vogel. It is a story of losses handed down from mothers to daughters and of the echoes that violence and displacement exert from one generation to another. Karam's slim, three-part lyrical novel follows the fate of two different families attempting to escape their devastated homelands.
I reviewed this for The Rumpus. It's an interesting book, definitely a creative approach to telling an old story. Sometimes the creative approach was spot on, other times it faltered. The full review is here.
May 7, 2025
Longlisted for the 2025 Oxford-Weidenfeld Translation Prize
The Singularity (2024) is Saskia Vogel's translation from Swedish of Balsam Karam's Singulariteten (2021). Karam is Swedish but of Kurdish origin, having come the country from Iraq as a child, and the original was shortlisted for the August Prize, the judges' nomination reads (google translated into English):
This is a formally inventive novel which tells a powerful story of migration and mourning. It begins with a Prologue set in an unnamed coastal city, one the author has described as deliberately generic but representative of the global south, one where poverty lives alongside upmarket tourism, and bullet holes from past conflicts can be incorporated as architectural features (from my own travels, I was reminded of Beirut).
There a woman wanders the streets desparately but increasingly despairingly searching for her missing daughter. That day, her hopes exhausted, she throws herself from the rocks of the corniche, her death witnesses by just one person, a seocnd woman, visiting this country on a business trip with a group of colleagues from a country in the global north, she the only one of her party to speak the local language.
The novel then consists of three stylistically distinct sections. The first The Missing Ones, tells, in lyrical prose, the story of the woman searching for her missing child, set over her final day but re-tracing her and her family's experience:
The second section switches to the second woman, who witnessed her death. This is set back in her home country (unnamed, but Scandinavian in nature). The woman, who was pregnant on the trip from the Prologue, has just discovered that she has suffered a late-term miscarriage (something the author also experienced) - the doctors tell her they will need to induce the baby, but, in her grief, she refuses, insisting she will carry the still-born infant to term.
This section is told in a fragmented prose, from a second person perspective, her memories of the country she and her family fled interwoven with the interactions with the medical professionals.
Karam's debut novel was published in 2018 and was called Händelsehorisonten (The Event Horizon), and the title of this section, The Singularity (from which the novel also takes its title_ continues the link to black holes. In this section, the woman recalls a conversation with her mother about her own birth as she also is interviewed by a pyschologist whose name she can't recall:
The third section of the novel is The Losses. This consists of a series of brief vignettes, told now in the first person by the woman from the second part, telling of her arrival, aged 6, and as a political refugee, in her now home country, her childhood as she and her siblings, mother and grandmother settled in their, not always welcoming, new home, and through to the business trip that constitutes the Prologue:
Impressive and a strong International Booker contender.
(Read 21st December - strong 4 stars)
The Singularity (2024) is Saskia Vogel's translation from Swedish of Balsam Karam's Singulariteten (2021). Karam is Swedish but of Kurdish origin, having come the country from Iraq as a child, and the original was shortlisted for the August Prize, the judges' nomination reads (google translated into English):
At the center of a black hole there is a singularity, a gravity without end. In a dense and lyrical novel, Balsam Karam describes both the infinite weight of loss and the great brutality of the world, and out of three different destinies a common humanity emerges. The singularity is a literary work of mourning characterized by linguistic density and formal elegance, with an eye for the beauty in the dark matter of life.
This is a formally inventive novel which tells a powerful story of migration and mourning. It begins with a Prologue set in an unnamed coastal city, one the author has described as deliberately generic but representative of the global south, one where poverty lives alongside upmarket tourism, and bullet holes from past conflicts can be incorporated as architectural features (from my own travels, I was reminded of Beirut).
There a woman wanders the streets desparately but increasingly despairingly searching for her missing daughter. That day, her hopes exhausted, she throws herself from the rocks of the corniche, her death witnesses by just one person, a seocnd woman, visiting this country on a business trip with a group of colleagues from a country in the global north, she the only one of her party to speak the local language.
Meanwhile elsewhere – just as the light turns green and the cars along a coastline prepare to leave the city towards the half desert and the mountains – more slowly than ever a woman crosses the highway, which, along with the corniche, is all that holds the ocean ever rising at bay.
The woman is alone, searching for her child.
Nothing in her face recalls what once was, and if someone shouts her name, she doesn’t turn around and say no or stop it in the language no one here understands or wants anything to do with; if they stop, she doesn’t meet their gaze, and if they say, wait, she doesn’t come back with a why nor later I have just as much right to walk here as you do, why can’t you understand that?
It’s Friday and soon the city almost dissolved by the heat will fill up with tourists dressed in bright clothes and on a ramble through the food markets with fried fish and oysters. From the large galleria, the tourists as if from out of a hole will make their way to the museum quarter and the souvenir shops and afterwards, once they’ve finished shopping, move on to the rose garden, the university and the bookshops, to the corn vendor on the corner by the drooping palm groves, alone in the sun, and the cats in repose, stretching out, waiting for the heat to break and for the sun to set.
Further on – furthest on where a hill obscures the view and the road muddies in the tracks of digging machines waiting for work to begin – are also abandoned new builds made of pale concrete and steel girders and a small library where only students go.
Yes, right across the road, invisible to those at the university looking out across the green space and the faculties, stand the new builds half-finished, missing most of the walls to what could have been a living room or bedroom, a bathroom, kitchen or storeroom, and that now gaping mostly keep the students shielded from wind and rain.
The novel then consists of three stylistically distinct sections. The first The Missing Ones, tells, in lyrical prose, the story of the woman searching for her missing child, set over her final day but re-tracing her and her family's experience:
Friday morning one late summer in a city where the rubbish from the buildings with balconies facing the corniche is driven to where the palm trees droop and the earth corrodes green and brown; to where the children with palm fronds in their arms stop every day to poke around in the puddles of mud, waiting for the dogs to eventually arrive and tear the rubbish bags wide open.
The children anticipate the dogs bounding atop the rubbish mound soon taller than the house along one side of the alley, and then them bounding back down and the mound sinking and spreading out; the children watch muddy water pulsing, filling the pits in the ground and flowing out to the cars and the newspaper stands, the shops, the fountain and the cherry trees too.
The woman searching for her child wakes up in the morning sunburnt and sits up in the sand.
The great loss has already rolled in across the earth, grief and drought, a tattered sunbaked landscape cupped by two empty hands; these days are not the days that once were and this place is a different place, the air close and old, and the city a hole between what came to be and what could have been.
If I feel the sun to be large and hot, it is even hotter to the child she says from her place on the beach, lifting a fistful of sand to her cheek — if in daytime I always appear as the stranger I am in this city, then the child must also appear somewhere — if only I could find the right position and turn my gaze in her direction she says, looking around as ifseeking the place from which the child might finally appear across the beach.
The second section switches to the second woman, who witnessed her death. This is set back in her home country (unnamed, but Scandinavian in nature). The woman, who was pregnant on the trip from the Prologue, has just discovered that she has suffered a late-term miscarriage (something the author also experienced) - the doctors tell her they will need to induce the baby, but, in her grief, she refuses, insisting she will carry the still-born infant to term.
This section is told in a fragmented prose, from a second person perspective, her memories of the country she and her family fled interwoven with the interactions with the medical professionals.
Karam's debut novel was published in 2018 and was called Händelsehorisonten (The Event Horizon), and the title of this section, The Singularity (from which the novel also takes its title_ continues the link to black holes. In this section, the woman recalls a conversation with her mother about her own birth as she also is interviewed by a pyschologist whose name she can't recall:
/ do you think of her often, Marcus or Magnus asks softly / we ate bean stew with rice and yoghurt and I drank a whole pot of tea afterwards / you nod, of course you do / Gran was the happiest of us all I think / I think of her and of my grandmother you say and put the cup down / she took you in her arms and then I made sure to sleep while I had the chance / do you know anything about black holes? you later ask the counsellor / and I only got out of bed the next morning can you imagine? / inside a black hole is a place that is also a state — do you know about this? you ask, facing Patrick or Henry in his chair / a few days later Rozias' mother visited with little Rozia in her arms and a basket full of fruit /no, I'm afraid I don't know much about space, says Eric or Martin and continues to take no notes / then the two of you would meet up practically every day / you say it's called the singularity - that's what the place is called and lean over the bed / you and Rozia were like twins, we thought - the same round face and your hair as big and black / inside the singularity, the force of gravity is so strong it canibe calculated, can you imagine? you tell the counsellor / the pair of you often played in Rozia's yard and sometimes you stood by the big road even though you weren't allowed to and the soldiers could show up at any moment / that force pushes bodies together and renders the distance between them nil / because you both liked Gran's fried potatoes and her bean stew, you mostly ate at ours Mum says / you use your hands to show how no space remains between bodies in the singularity
The third section of the novel is The Losses. This consists of a series of brief vignettes, told now in the first person by the woman from the second part, telling of her arrival, aged 6, and as a political refugee, in her now home country, her childhood as she and her siblings, mother and grandmother settled in their, not always welcoming, new home, and through to the business trip that constitutes the Prologue:
So you weren't born here? they ask during the third and final interview for the job you would very much like to have. No, I came here when I was six years old you say and fall silent. You know what's going on, where the woman who asked the question is going with this. It's very im-pressive, says the man who might become your boss, that you know so many languages and have managed so well, he says. On the way out of the interview he'll tell you that the office has planned a business trip, that your language skills would be a perfect fit for the trip to the city with the corniche, that they'll bear this in mind as they review the final candidates.
Impressive and a strong International Booker contender.
(Read 21st December - strong 4 stars)
November 20, 2023
A very moving look at belonging, motherhood, war, loss, migration and grief.
The book itself is split between the story of a mother searching for her lost grown up daughter who has disappeared (as many others have) after working at a restaurant. This all takes place in an unnamed but war-torn, economically poor country. The second string to the book is the story of a migrant woman expecting her first child. One night she is at the restaurant and sees the first mother, stricken with grief, throw herself to her death. The woman's unborn child is later discovered to be dead inside her.
The two strands come together in the third part of the novel describing the reactions of the young mother-to-be on having being told her baby has died juxtaposed with the story of her moving to another country with her siblings, mother and grandmother.
The descriptions of the mother being told her unborn child had died were difficult to read. Her reluctance to be separated from the unborn baby is extremely emotive.
In fact the whole book gives a description of migrant life that is hard to stomach but worth it. The split stories in the third part may seem confused at first but the way it is written only adds to the story in my opinion. I found it easy to get to grips with even if the subject matter was not easy to read.
Balsam Karam has produced a beautiful but heartbreaking and challenging novel that I'd highly recommend.
Thanks to Netgalley and Fitzcarraldo for the advance review copy.
The book itself is split between the story of a mother searching for her lost grown up daughter who has disappeared (as many others have) after working at a restaurant. This all takes place in an unnamed but war-torn, economically poor country. The second string to the book is the story of a migrant woman expecting her first child. One night she is at the restaurant and sees the first mother, stricken with grief, throw herself to her death. The woman's unborn child is later discovered to be dead inside her.
The two strands come together in the third part of the novel describing the reactions of the young mother-to-be on having being told her baby has died juxtaposed with the story of her moving to another country with her siblings, mother and grandmother.
The descriptions of the mother being told her unborn child had died were difficult to read. Her reluctance to be separated from the unborn baby is extremely emotive.
In fact the whole book gives a description of migrant life that is hard to stomach but worth it. The split stories in the third part may seem confused at first but the way it is written only adds to the story in my opinion. I found it easy to get to grips with even if the subject matter was not easy to read.
Balsam Karam has produced a beautiful but heartbreaking and challenging novel that I'd highly recommend.
Thanks to Netgalley and Fitzcarraldo for the advance review copy.
January 4, 2024
Not the happiest book to start 2024 with, but it definitely makes an impression.
In episodic style Balsam Karam tells the story of two women in a fictional coastal city of a war-torn country, presumably somewhere in the Middle East, where rich tourists dine in fancy restaurants alongside struggling local refugees in the streets. One local woman desperately searches for her missing daughter who used to work in one of the restaurants. The other woman, visiting from Sweden on a business trip, is pregnant and later confronted with stillbirth.
The fragmented form and strangely sentences from which any unnecessary word has been removed, took me some pages to get used to, but ultimately worked very well, going straight to the heart of the matter.
Highly recommended.
In episodic style Balsam Karam tells the story of two women in a fictional coastal city of a war-torn country, presumably somewhere in the Middle East, where rich tourists dine in fancy restaurants alongside struggling local refugees in the streets. One local woman desperately searches for her missing daughter who used to work in one of the restaurants. The other woman, visiting from Sweden on a business trip, is pregnant and later confronted with stillbirth.
The fragmented form and strangely sentences from which any unnecessary word has been removed, took me some pages to get used to, but ultimately worked very well, going straight to the heart of the matter.
Highly recommended.
November 30, 2023
150th book of 2023.
This'll be Fitzcarraldo's first publication of 2024 from Balsam Karam, an Iranian-born Swedish writer. A short book focussing on emigration and immigration, I felt that The Singularity suffers from it's fragmented nature in the beginning. I didn't care so much for the characters as they felt like cut-outs designed to drive the narrative. This is, of course, natural, but I wanted a little more to hold onto. Ironically, the final part of the novel is fragmented further, made of short paragraphs per page, but I found them, stacking and more personal, to be the most affecting part.
I recently told Alan about some Israelis who have been coming into work for the last two weeks and attending story times, taking books. Two days ago they left us a card thanking us for everything, and saying they were flying back to their home in Tel Aviv. They signed off with: "If only we could be citizens of the library." This has been echoing around my head since.
This'll be Fitzcarraldo's first publication of 2024 from Balsam Karam, an Iranian-born Swedish writer. A short book focussing on emigration and immigration, I felt that The Singularity suffers from it's fragmented nature in the beginning. I didn't care so much for the characters as they felt like cut-outs designed to drive the narrative. This is, of course, natural, but I wanted a little more to hold onto. Ironically, the final part of the novel is fragmented further, made of short paragraphs per page, but I found them, stacking and more personal, to be the most affecting part.
None of your white friends have wanted to hear any of your memories from the war. It hits you one day as you've sitting with one of them, listening to him talk about how he used to pick berries with his grandmother as a child. He goes into minute detail, pulling out pictures from when he was in the bilberry patch in the woods, one where he is sticking out his tongue, pulling a face. Yes, but my friend Rozia was found in the rubble after a bombing, what do you think about that? you say and wait for him to respond.
I recently told Alan about some Israelis who have been coming into work for the last two weeks and attending story times, taking books. Two days ago they left us a card thanking us for everything, and saying they were flying back to their home in Tel Aviv. They signed off with: "If only we could be citizens of the library." This has been echoing around my head since.
August 14, 2021
Så, nu har jag lånat om den igen. Trots att jag
redan hade läst halva så börjar jag om från början
för att bättre få känslan för hela boken.
LÄS!
redan hade läst halva så börjar jag om från början
för att bättre få känslan för hela boken.
LÄS!
January 27, 2024
A hard but fascinating read. The Singularity is a book of three parts. The first part follows a woman who commits suicide after her daughter goes missing and she is unable to find her. The second follows a pregnant woman who witnesses the suicide and days later miscarries the child. The third is the fictionalised account of what seems to be snippets from the authors childhood as they fled as refugees from Iran to Sweden and learned to grow up here.
I loved the experimental nature of this novel and especially the way the first two parts of the book were told very differently to each other. It was a really haunting look at motherhood and I particularly enjoyed the parts in the second half where the narrator was having to navigate losing her unborn child amongst a cold, medical setting.
The third part was where this book really shined and I adored it. It moves back and forth between the authors childhood learning the Swedish language and culture with her siblings, mother and Grandmother, and the author as an adult preparing to go back to Iran for a work trip. The family long for the safe haven of their home in Iran but know they cannot return. They experience racism and discrimination but stick together as a family and their shared memories of their home. I loved how this explored maternal relationships too with-in the struggles of migration and alienation inside a new country. It was an addictive and brilliant read at the end of the book.
I loved the experimental nature of this novel and especially the way the first two parts of the book were told very differently to each other. It was a really haunting look at motherhood and I particularly enjoyed the parts in the second half where the narrator was having to navigate losing her unborn child amongst a cold, medical setting.
The third part was where this book really shined and I adored it. It moves back and forth between the authors childhood learning the Swedish language and culture with her siblings, mother and Grandmother, and the author as an adult preparing to go back to Iran for a work trip. The family long for the safe haven of their home in Iran but know they cannot return. They experience racism and discrimination but stick together as a family and their shared memories of their home. I loved how this explored maternal relationships too with-in the struggles of migration and alienation inside a new country. It was an addictive and brilliant read at the end of the book.
abandoned-dnf
June 5, 2024DNF @ 13% - After reading through the reviews just now, I gather this book might have started to make more sense to me soon, but by now I was too bored (and a little confused) that I didn't want to put in any more effort than I already had. To my way of thinking, the early pages of a book should try to "grab" the reader - get the reader interested - and this one did quite the opposite. Luckily, it was fairly inexpensive, so not much of a financial loss. But I'm disappointed.
November 17, 2022
Dit is geen echte recensie. Wel een mijmering over lezen en de plaats van het boek De singulariteit van de naar Zweden uitgeweken Koerdische Balsam Karam binnen mijn leeservaringen.
In donkere tijden open ik boeken op zoek naar losgeslagen verbeeldingskracht, meeslepende spanning, komische verstrooiing of narratieve grandeur. Tegengesteld aan deze escapistische beweegredenen is juist de volle vlucht vooruit: boeken die Conrad-gewijs recht in het hart der duisternis mikken en als kamikazepiloten te pletter storten tegen de beenharde werkelijkheid. Lezen als het literaire equivalent van teruggrijpen naar je beste blues LP’s als je vervuld bent door liefdesverdriet. Het kan in een lastige levensfase juist zalvend zijn om aan de hand te worden genomen door een auteur die in de afgrond afdaalt. In het beschrijven en aankaarten van treurnis, miserie en onrechtvaardigheid zit een noodzakelijke bron van diepe menselijkheid. Noodzakelijk omdat enkel een waarnemer of verteller met een hart kan spreken over het harteloze. Verontwaardiging verschalkt onverschilligheid en is de eerste stap naar -de herovering van- hoop.
In De singulariteit trof ik een grauw, naamloos kuststadje waarin twee vrouwen (beiden ooit gevlucht denk ik) op een vreemde manier verbonden raken: één vrouw is oeverloos op zoek naar haar verdwenen kind en stort zich te pletter, terwijl een andere, zwangere vrouw daar getuige van is. De baby sterft in de buik en de moeder is ervan overtuigd dat het op hetzelfde moment van de zelfdoding is gebeurd. Gevoelens van beide vrouwen worden intens en desondanks vaag geschetst. Hun beider middelpunt is immers zoek en dat wordt benadrukt door kronkelende zinnen met overlappende en springende gedachten. Komma's zijn schaars. De zinsstructuur klopt vaak niet. En terecht: de gedachtestroom -of beter: de zondvloed aan verdriet- bestaat immers niet uit mooi afgestreken maatbekers, maar kwistig uitgegoten vaten. Ook de autonomie lijkt te vervallen: omdat diepe rouw tegelijk extreem persoonlijk en extreem herkenbaar is, lijken de haveloze vrouwen in elkaar over te vloeien. Ze zijn verstrengeld. De lezer geraakt het Noorden kwijt en juist daardoor wordt de universele aard van hartzeer versterkt. Een briljante vertaling van Hans Kloos was fundamenteel om deze cluster aan perspectieven en het individueel ervaren van universele gevoelens over te brengen in een taal die wringt, springt, rolt, spartelt en vooral ademloos weer verder stroomt.
Boeken die tijdens het lezen van De Singulariteit in me op kwamen (vooral omwille van het vluchtelingenthema, de donkerte en het intrigerende taalspel): Aan de oever van Rafael Chirbes, Materiaalmoeheid van Marek Sindelka en Exit West van Mohsin Hamid.
Ik hoop dat De Singulariteit van de prachtige Uitgeverij Kievenaar besproken wordt in boekenbijlages en een breder publiek krijgt. Want wat deze sterke, eigengereide roman voor me betekent in een periode waarin de wereld vuurtorens voor frêle waakvlammen lijkt te hebben verwisseld en ik heel veel zwaarte op mijn schouders voel als ik aan de toekomst van alle (en ja dus ook mijn) kinderen denk: hoe de twee vrouwen zonder enig contact toch verbonden (b)lijken en hoe verdriet bijna als iets atomair wordt geschetst waardoor het intrinsiek des mensen is: individueel maar toch deelbaar. En alles wat deelbaar is leidt potentieel naar solidariteit.
Als een boom omvalt in een bos zonder iemand in de buurt. Is er dan geluid?
Als een vrouw ten einde raad van de klippen duikelt en niemand is daarvan getuige. Is er dan smart? Werd de noodkreet gehoord?
De tweede vrouw die de eerste ziet springen, registreert het leed en bekrachtigt de menselijkheid: van zichzelf en van de onbekende andere. Dit uit een intriest boek mogen destilleren, wakkert mijn waakvlam weer even aan.
In donkere tijden open ik boeken op zoek naar losgeslagen verbeeldingskracht, meeslepende spanning, komische verstrooiing of narratieve grandeur. Tegengesteld aan deze escapistische beweegredenen is juist de volle vlucht vooruit: boeken die Conrad-gewijs recht in het hart der duisternis mikken en als kamikazepiloten te pletter storten tegen de beenharde werkelijkheid. Lezen als het literaire equivalent van teruggrijpen naar je beste blues LP’s als je vervuld bent door liefdesverdriet. Het kan in een lastige levensfase juist zalvend zijn om aan de hand te worden genomen door een auteur die in de afgrond afdaalt. In het beschrijven en aankaarten van treurnis, miserie en onrechtvaardigheid zit een noodzakelijke bron van diepe menselijkheid. Noodzakelijk omdat enkel een waarnemer of verteller met een hart kan spreken over het harteloze. Verontwaardiging verschalkt onverschilligheid en is de eerste stap naar -de herovering van- hoop.
In De singulariteit trof ik een grauw, naamloos kuststadje waarin twee vrouwen (beiden ooit gevlucht denk ik) op een vreemde manier verbonden raken: één vrouw is oeverloos op zoek naar haar verdwenen kind en stort zich te pletter, terwijl een andere, zwangere vrouw daar getuige van is. De baby sterft in de buik en de moeder is ervan overtuigd dat het op hetzelfde moment van de zelfdoding is gebeurd. Gevoelens van beide vrouwen worden intens en desondanks vaag geschetst. Hun beider middelpunt is immers zoek en dat wordt benadrukt door kronkelende zinnen met overlappende en springende gedachten. Komma's zijn schaars. De zinsstructuur klopt vaak niet. En terecht: de gedachtestroom -of beter: de zondvloed aan verdriet- bestaat immers niet uit mooi afgestreken maatbekers, maar kwistig uitgegoten vaten. Ook de autonomie lijkt te vervallen: omdat diepe rouw tegelijk extreem persoonlijk en extreem herkenbaar is, lijken de haveloze vrouwen in elkaar over te vloeien. Ze zijn verstrengeld. De lezer geraakt het Noorden kwijt en juist daardoor wordt de universele aard van hartzeer versterkt. Een briljante vertaling van Hans Kloos was fundamenteel om deze cluster aan perspectieven en het individueel ervaren van universele gevoelens over te brengen in een taal die wringt, springt, rolt, spartelt en vooral ademloos weer verder stroomt.
Boeken die tijdens het lezen van De Singulariteit in me op kwamen (vooral omwille van het vluchtelingenthema, de donkerte en het intrigerende taalspel): Aan de oever van Rafael Chirbes, Materiaalmoeheid van Marek Sindelka en Exit West van Mohsin Hamid.
Ik hoop dat De Singulariteit van de prachtige Uitgeverij Kievenaar besproken wordt in boekenbijlages en een breder publiek krijgt. Want wat deze sterke, eigengereide roman voor me betekent in een periode waarin de wereld vuurtorens voor frêle waakvlammen lijkt te hebben verwisseld en ik heel veel zwaarte op mijn schouders voel als ik aan de toekomst van alle (en ja dus ook mijn) kinderen denk: hoe de twee vrouwen zonder enig contact toch verbonden (b)lijken en hoe verdriet bijna als iets atomair wordt geschetst waardoor het intrinsiek des mensen is: individueel maar toch deelbaar. En alles wat deelbaar is leidt potentieel naar solidariteit.
Als een boom omvalt in een bos zonder iemand in de buurt. Is er dan geluid?
Als een vrouw ten einde raad van de klippen duikelt en niemand is daarvan getuige. Is er dan smart? Werd de noodkreet gehoord?
De tweede vrouw die de eerste ziet springen, registreert het leed en bekrachtigt de menselijkheid: van zichzelf en van de onbekende andere. Dit uit een intriest boek mogen destilleren, wakkert mijn waakvlam weer even aan.
March 23, 2021
Precis som författarens debut Händelsehorisontens titel relaterar till svarta hål, gör Singulariteten. Ett tillstånd i singulariteten – en specifik punkt i rumtiden – kan inte beskrivas med konventionella fysiska lagar. Newtons lag slås ut, graviditeten får oändliga värden. Två massor upptar samma plats och avståndet mellan dem är noll. Jag tycker Singulariteten är ett otroligt snyggt namn på denna imponerande triptyk om sorg och förlust – det allra svartaste svarta, som omformulerar förståelsen av tid och rum. Titeln kommer från vetenskapen, men ingen vetenskap i världen kan öka förståelsen för huvudpersonerna i Singulariteten där generation efter generation tvingas uppleva förlustens söndertrasande tillstånd.
Den första delen handlar om en mamma som söker efter sin försvunna flicka. Vi är i ett okänt land, kanske i mellanöstern, i en fattig gränd, kanske ett flyktingläger. En gravid kvinna bevittnar mammans sökande, hon fokaliseras i del två som flätas samman med första delen på ett elegant sätt. Del tre utspelar sig kanske i Sverige, tidsligt före del två, kanske samtidigt som del ett.
”Under lunchen frågar din systers kollega om din syster tvingats in i sitt giftermål. Ja alltså jag har läst att det kan gå till så i din kultur, säger hon – att man liksom inte får välja. Senare berättar din syster att hon hade velat fråga om kvinnans man brukar åka utomlands och köpa barn – jag har hört att det går till så i din kultur ville jag säga, men jag kunde inte säger din syster i telefon – jag har inte råd att lämna det här jobbet och dessutom behöver jag bara träffa rassekärringen två gånger i veckan så det är okej.”
Vägen mellan havet och bergen, strandpromenaden kallad cornichen, går som ett omkväde genom alla delar. På cornichen möts fattiga flyktingar och rika turister. Därifrån försvinner flickan. Där befinner sig också den gravida kvinnan.
Singulariteten är väl sammansatt, fragmentarisk och bitvis suggestiv. Stilen är skimrande, originell och fåordig, med stort innehåll. Bra gestaltning, ofta med hjälp av dialoger. Personerna är alla kvinnor, de hör samman via sina upplevelser av att leva i exil, trauman, förluster av barn, kultur och språk. Utan sentimentalitet skriver Karam fram en berörande och tankeväckande berättelse. Det är en magisk läsupplevelse som tar slut alldeles för snabbt. Det känns olustigt att skriva så med tanke på att det som skildras är erfarenheter som aldrig tycks ta slut.
Den första delen handlar om en mamma som söker efter sin försvunna flicka. Vi är i ett okänt land, kanske i mellanöstern, i en fattig gränd, kanske ett flyktingläger. En gravid kvinna bevittnar mammans sökande, hon fokaliseras i del två som flätas samman med första delen på ett elegant sätt. Del tre utspelar sig kanske i Sverige, tidsligt före del två, kanske samtidigt som del ett.
”Under lunchen frågar din systers kollega om din syster tvingats in i sitt giftermål. Ja alltså jag har läst att det kan gå till så i din kultur, säger hon – att man liksom inte får välja. Senare berättar din syster att hon hade velat fråga om kvinnans man brukar åka utomlands och köpa barn – jag har hört att det går till så i din kultur ville jag säga, men jag kunde inte säger din syster i telefon – jag har inte råd att lämna det här jobbet och dessutom behöver jag bara träffa rassekärringen två gånger i veckan så det är okej.”
Vägen mellan havet och bergen, strandpromenaden kallad cornichen, går som ett omkväde genom alla delar. På cornichen möts fattiga flyktingar och rika turister. Därifrån försvinner flickan. Där befinner sig också den gravida kvinnan.
Singulariteten är väl sammansatt, fragmentarisk och bitvis suggestiv. Stilen är skimrande, originell och fåordig, med stort innehåll. Bra gestaltning, ofta med hjälp av dialoger. Personerna är alla kvinnor, de hör samman via sina upplevelser av att leva i exil, trauman, förluster av barn, kultur och språk. Utan sentimentalitet skriver Karam fram en berörande och tankeväckande berättelse. Det är en magisk läsupplevelse som tar slut alldeles för snabbt. Det känns olustigt att skriva så med tanke på att det som skildras är erfarenheter som aldrig tycks ta slut.
November 6, 2023
Upon reading the blurb of this book, which described its interest in 'grief, migration, and motherhood', I was immediately eager to read it - in our current, increasingly bleak political times its themes felt more timely than ever. In the novel, set in an unnamed, war-stricken city, and largely centred the interconnected yet disparate stories of two women (one searching for her lost child, the other on the brink of motherhood), the plot flits around, dipping in and out of different points of view and locations and artfully echoing the sense of scattering and displacement that seems to lurk within its characters.
The first chapter felt, to me, by far the strongest, as Karam managed to knit together the dual stories of her main protagonists in a way which seemed effortless and yet filled with tension - here, the blend between the external events and the internalised, stream-of-consciousness thoughts was both subtle and deliberate. That being said, as my star rating will attest, as the book went on, I felt the narrative style (fragmentary, detached, lyrical) began to overwhelm and overshadow the text itself - although I am sure this was the author's intention, it became increasingly difficult to follow, and I found myself struggling to connect with the characters as a result. The latter third of the book, which became more fragmentary still (made up of short, paragraph-length fragments) felt more interested in style than substance; there would clearly be an interesting story here, if it had been allowed to be told at length (instead, disappointingly, it followed an increasingly popular trend of having more white space than actual words on the page...).
Thank you to NetGalley and Fitzcarraldo for this ARC ebook - there was still a lot to admire in this book, and I would be interested to read Karam's future works!
The first chapter felt, to me, by far the strongest, as Karam managed to knit together the dual stories of her main protagonists in a way which seemed effortless and yet filled with tension - here, the blend between the external events and the internalised, stream-of-consciousness thoughts was both subtle and deliberate. That being said, as my star rating will attest, as the book went on, I felt the narrative style (fragmentary, detached, lyrical) began to overwhelm and overshadow the text itself - although I am sure this was the author's intention, it became increasingly difficult to follow, and I found myself struggling to connect with the characters as a result. The latter third of the book, which became more fragmentary still (made up of short, paragraph-length fragments) felt more interested in style than substance; there would clearly be an interesting story here, if it had been allowed to be told at length (instead, disappointingly, it followed an increasingly popular trend of having more white space than actual words on the page...).
Thank you to NetGalley and Fitzcarraldo for this ARC ebook - there was still a lot to admire in this book, and I would be interested to read Karam's future works!
June 11, 2024
the singularity was very lyrical (probably too much for me), and too experimental in terms of form and alternating povs, resulting in big gaps and vagueness that the (undeniable) beauty of the writing unfortunately wasn't enough to compensate for. the singularity was too atmospheric and buoyant to capture my attention, and i often lost the thread. it's a pity, because it's a book that has everything to please me, it tackles subjects such as migratory exile, motherhood, mourning, fractured families. the stylistic eccentricities reach a climax in the final section, which is made up of a series of short vignettes, which i particularly enjoyed. i can't help but think that naming the characters would have made the story more accessible (although i understand that it's a choice the author made that makes sense). overall, this was a hugely frustrating read, as the potential is there but I wasn't receptive to the execution, which nonetheless remains a heartbreaking story and a voice that longs to be heard!
September 1, 2024
Почти винаги трудните за четене книги ми стават любими. Трудни, заради теми, сюжети, герои. Трудни защото са написани красиво и въздействащо, но текста е сложен или написан по странен и нетипичен начин, връщаш се, препрочиташ, осмисляш. Не можеш да прелиташ през текста, изисква се пълно вглъбяване и отдаване на думите. Не говоря само за липса на диалог или такъв вкаран в текста без обозначение на пряката реч, нито за поток на мисълта. “Сингулярност” е много специален и различен роман, именно заради начина, по който авторката го е структурирала и написала. Определено не е лесен за прочит, но напълно си заслужава четенето. Не бих го препоръчала с лека ръка на всеки читател, но ако гореописаното резонира с вашите книжни интереси задължително не го подминавайте.
Отне ми време да се ориентирам в текста и да се потопя в историята, но красотата на езика и мъката, с която е пропита всяка страница ме завладяха още с първите редове. Липсата на времева рамка, пространство и имена на героите ни също оказва влияние върху прочита. Имаме неназован страна, неназована война, неназован крайбрежен град, майка, баба, Изчезналата .Само няколко персонажа имат имена и съвсем в края на романа става ясно, че героите ни са бежанци в Швеция.
Романът е разделен на 4 части. Имаме Пролог, в който се запознаваме с двете жени, чиито съдби с преплитат. Майка, която търси дъщеря си - Изчезналата. Това е и името втората част. В нея майката броди по улиците на града с надеждата да я открие дъщеря си, а трите и по-малки деца са в очакване тя да се прибере, докато един ден, загубила всяка надежда, тя не се хвърля в океана, а бременна жена става свидетел на самоубийството и, след което разбира, че детето в утробата и е мъртво. Втората част е посветена именно на нея нея, спомените и и работата и по преодоляване на болката от загубата на нероденото дете, което тя трябва да роди по естествен път… Тази и е най-трудната и интересна от стилистична гледна точка част на книгата. Спомените и случващото се в болницата са преплетени в едно като Балсам Карам е изплела невероятна конструкция , в която изречения от едната история се редуват с такива от другата.Последната част *Загубите* е съвкупност от малки фрагменти и спомени от живота на майката след бягството родната им страна.
Изключително силен и въздействащ роман за загубата на майка, дете, родина, идентичност, за емигрантството и интеграцията на бежанците от всички онези войни, които разкъсват света ни и в този момент.
“Коя майка не се самоубива ако детето и е изчезнало? Жената слага децата пред себе си и започва да гали косите им с нежни движения от челото към врата. Да, разпознава себе си - както и децата, които от първи май насам е отблъсквала отново и отново от страх да не омекне и в тази своя мекота да забрави, че трябва непрестанно да търси, да държи същото си изражение и същата усмивка, както преди, но нито тя, нито децата са същите.”
Отне ми време да се ориентирам в текста и да се потопя в историята, но красотата на езика и мъката, с която е пропита всяка страница ме завладяха още с първите редове. Липсата на времева рамка, пространство и имена на героите ни също оказва влияние върху прочита. Имаме неназован страна, неназована война, неназован крайбрежен град, майка, баба, Изчезналата .Само няколко персонажа имат имена и съвсем в края на романа става ясно, че героите ни са бежанци в Швеция.
Романът е разделен на 4 части. Имаме Пролог, в който се запознаваме с двете жени, чиито съдби с преплитат. Майка, която търси дъщеря си - Изчезналата. Това е и името втората част. В нея майката броди по улиците на града с надеждата да я открие дъщеря си, а трите и по-малки деца са в очакване тя да се прибере, докато един ден, загубила всяка надежда, тя не се хвърля в океана, а бременна жена става свидетел на самоубийството и, след което разбира, че детето в утробата и е мъртво. Втората част е посветена именно на нея нея, спомените и и работата и по преодоляване на болката от загубата на нероденото дете, което тя трябва да роди по естествен път… Тази и е най-трудната и интересна от стилистична гледна точка част на книгата. Спомените и случващото се в болницата са преплетени в едно като Балсам Карам е изплела невероятна конструкция , в която изречения от едната история се редуват с такива от другата.Последната част *Загубите* е съвкупност от малки фрагменти и спомени от живота на майката след бягството родната им страна.
Изключително силен и въздействащ роман за загубата на майка, дете, родина, идентичност, за емигрантството и интеграцията на бежанците от всички онези войни, които разкъсват света ни и в този момент.
“Коя майка не се самоубива ако детето и е изчезнало? Жената слага децата пред себе си и започва да гали косите им с нежни движения от челото към врата. Да, разпознава себе си - както и децата, които от първи май насам е отблъсквала отново и отново от страх да не омекне и в тази своя мекота да забрави, че трябва непрестанно да търси, да държи същото си изражение и същата усмивка, както преди, но нито тя, нито децата са същите.”
March 24, 2024
Format: audiobook ~ Narrator: Mara Wilson
Content: 4 stars ~ Narration: 5 stars
Complete audiobook review
Although The Singularity is a relatively short novel, it’s very well-written and original. The non-linear narrative presents the story of two women. Author intertwines the themes of motherhood, refugees, and loss.
Balsam Karam is a Swedish writer and librarian of Iranian Kurdish descent, and she obviously knows the topics covered here. The narrator, Mara Wilson (known for Matilda), did an amazing job. She narrates this sad novel perfectly.
Thanks to Dreamscape Media for the advance copy and this opportunity! This is a voluntary review and all opinions are my own.
Content: 4 stars ~ Narration: 5 stars
Complete audiobook review
Although The Singularity is a relatively short novel, it’s very well-written and original. The non-linear narrative presents the story of two women. Author intertwines the themes of motherhood, refugees, and loss.
Balsam Karam is a Swedish writer and librarian of Iranian Kurdish descent, and she obviously knows the topics covered here. The narrator, Mara Wilson (known for Matilda), did an amazing job. She narrates this sad novel perfectly.
Thanks to Dreamscape Media for the advance copy and this opportunity! This is a voluntary review and all opinions are my own.
August 2, 2024
The English language Fitzcarraldo one, which doesn’t appear to be on GR.
Went to see her read from this last night at Voce Books, Birmingham (UK). Fascinating discussion which included refugees, black holes and libraries. Can’t wait to read my signed copy.
I found it difficult to get a grip in the first part of the book which is repetitive and poetic but missed out - for me - on creating a personality for the grieving mother searching for her child. However things picked up in the last two sections with the woman with the dead unborn child refusing to let go of the baby within her. This was moving and particular. The third part was more general about the experiences of immigrants in their host country (misunderstandings, hostility, sometimes real help), and broke down into fragments (less than half a page at a time), but told a coherent and moving story.
Went to see her read from this last night at Voce Books, Birmingham (UK). Fascinating discussion which included refugees, black holes and libraries. Can’t wait to read my signed copy.
I found it difficult to get a grip in the first part of the book which is repetitive and poetic but missed out - for me - on creating a personality for the grieving mother searching for her child. However things picked up in the last two sections with the woman with the dead unborn child refusing to let go of the baby within her. This was moving and particular. The third part was more general about the experiences of immigrants in their host country (misunderstandings, hostility, sometimes real help), and broke down into fragments (less than half a page at a time), but told a coherent and moving story.
March 11, 2024
ARC audiobook provided in exchange for an honest review.
Mara Wilson narrates this book perfectly and her tone kept me intrigued the whole time! I really liked how the story gives a message but also sounds like poetry in motion. The words and settings are captivating and the characters are heartbreaking with their losses. I really enjoyed it and know that many others will as well! Definitely give this book a try!
Mara Wilson narrates this book perfectly and her tone kept me intrigued the whole time! I really liked how the story gives a message but also sounds like poetry in motion. The words and settings are captivating and the characters are heartbreaking with their losses. I really enjoyed it and know that many others will as well! Definitely give this book a try!
March 18, 2024
Still gathering words. Absolutely phenomenal. More when the review is out.
July 2, 2021
Samma poetiska känsla som jag upplevde i händelsehorisonten, och att de också hakar i varandra. Människorna i utkanten av samhället, de som flytt/varit tvungna lämna sina hem. Om omöjligheten i att rangordna sina trauman. Lite experimentell stil/form ibland, som jag gillar.
August 9, 2021
Ett sorgearbete indeed. Tom i kroppen av värken att läsa. Bråkig i syntaxen, men när man väl accepterade den så flöt den på sitt egna sätt.
June 1, 2025
Una madre busca a su hija desaparecida. Desesperada, día tras día, vuelve a recorrer la ciudad, esa ciudad ajena, una y otra vez pero no obtiene respuestas, no hay ninguna pista, sólo la nada. Su angustia y tormento llegan al límite y es ahí cuando el azar la cruza con otra mujer, también madre y también con una pérdida que ha hecho que su mundo se venga abajo.
A partir de ahí se sucede una narración muy personal, desde los dos puntos de vista y lo que dejan a su alrededor, que abarca tanto que es difícil transmitir aquí en pocas palabras.
La inmigración y la vida desde los márgenes, el sentido de no pertenencia, la identidad, el abandono y el olvido de las autoridades ante la pobreza y la desgracia que ellas mismas han provocado, el desarraigo, la pérdida, la ausencia que pesa como una losa, el tránsito de un duelo que no puedes cerrar.
Su forma de presentar todo esto es también muy característica, una voz propia lírica, muy singular, con una estructura fragmentada, desordenada, pero que va unificándose y cobrando cada vez más sentido, una prosa que te desconcierta, te golpea y te atraviesa. Es difícil de explicar, me ha provocado tantas sensaciones que sólo podría decir que leáis a Balsam para que lo experimenteis de primera mano.
A partir de ahí se sucede una narración muy personal, desde los dos puntos de vista y lo que dejan a su alrededor, que abarca tanto que es difícil transmitir aquí en pocas palabras.
La inmigración y la vida desde los márgenes, el sentido de no pertenencia, la identidad, el abandono y el olvido de las autoridades ante la pobreza y la desgracia que ellas mismas han provocado, el desarraigo, la pérdida, la ausencia que pesa como una losa, el tránsito de un duelo que no puedes cerrar.
Su forma de presentar todo esto es también muy característica, una voz propia lírica, muy singular, con una estructura fragmentada, desordenada, pero que va unificándose y cobrando cada vez más sentido, una prosa que te desconcierta, te golpea y te atraviesa. Es difícil de explicar, me ha provocado tantas sensaciones que sólo podría decir que leáis a Balsam para que lo experimenteis de primera mano.
February 2, 2024
Wowow this worked for me on every level. Karam writes with brevity and precision to tell the stories of two women, different yet alike. Both have lost children, both have had to leave their homes and their countries, and both are filled with an overwhelming feeling of grief as they navigate these losses.
I loved the writing style here. Karam experiments with form throughout as she continually weaves together and diverges the two stories, using alternating sentences to at once be in the past and present , and a vignette style to show the alienation the displaced family feels in their new country.
It’s really heart wrenching. The scenes of the woman wandering the corniche, slowly losing her grip on reality and of her children left in the alley were particularly haunting.
I loved the writing style here. Karam experiments with form throughout as she continually weaves together and diverges the two stories, using alternating sentences to at once be in the past and present , and a vignette style to show the alienation the displaced family feels in their new country.
It’s really heart wrenching. The scenes of the woman wandering the corniche, slowly losing her grip on reality and of her children left in the alley were particularly haunting.
January 11, 2024
From the first we are greeted with sentences that are disjointed, there is a intangible feel to the writing and to the characters created by Karam. It's as if her women are trying to grasp something solid to hang on to but instead are grasping air and are so left flailing.
Karam examines, loss and the resultant grief for the loss. The loss of children, the loss of country, culture, family. Her choice of words and structure as discussed above, underlines the shaky ground these women stand on.
An ARC kindly give by author/publisher via Netgalley.
January 31, 2024
"If the loss is present, the children no longer know whether it is their mother or sister it has laid claim to, and if heads tilted they stand by the ruined wall and search the swarm across the road they no longer know which of the two to search for."
One woman refugee searches in vain for her lost daughter until in utter desperation leaps over the cliffs to her death while another woman who is suffering the loss of her pregnancy witnesses the suicide. I am not spoiling anything here as this is all written on the back cover. Now that we have the side-by-side interwoven tragedies, this is where Balsam Karam's writing takes over.
"Can traumas be ranked?"
Playing with a variety of intersectional formats and perspectives, both women's stories become more apparent and we begin to discover the common threads that run through both of their narratives. Interwoven with compassionate and understated thriving writing, Karam delves into these women's experiences. They each have their traumas each of which is manifold and layered to the point where Karam challenges the reader to look at what is trauma, and what that looks like in a bodily sense, and the duress of migration and resettling. The Singularity begs the reader to question if we feel empathy as a universality or is it specific to each situation as we deem fit. I don't claim to have the answer, though I am thankful for writers like Balsam Karam for trying to find the answer.
"Have the missing ever returned she says and runs a hand over the wall and the bullet holes sharp in the middle of the wall - has spilled water ever been unspilled she says and falls silent."
Heartbreaking. Stunning. Gutwrenching. These are a few of the words I would use to describe my reading experience with The Singularity by Balsam Karam. With her many passages that I went back to reread, Saskia Vogel has done a wonderful translation so that we English-speaking readers get the privilege to read books like The Singularity. Balasam Karam is a literary talent that I will be keeping my eyes open for what they share with us next. Go pick up this book out on January 23 from Book*hug Press here in Canada.
Thank you to Book*hug Press for the ARC.
Thank you
"The great loss has already rolled in across the earth, grief and drought, a tattered sun-baked landscape cupped by two empty hands these days are not the days that once were and this place is a different place, the air close and old, and the city a hole between what came to be and what could have been."
"The children continue to take stones lost from the ruined wall and place them on their mountain, turning it into a home, raising it as a shelter."
"The inner distances are greater - between memory and memory and from experience to experience time no longer passes, and the woman does not know where she is or why, whether it was a year or a lifetime ago that the child was playing in her belly and the sun almost extinguished was setting over the sugar cane fields and the mountains, or whether she will again be consigned here tonight, to this place on the beach, to the here and now."
"From here she can see the movement of loss and doesn't know what to do; she sees it all the time and fears it as she sits there watching over the alley - she even sees it when the children for once seem to be laughing or playing, and fears it too in dreams when they emerge from the red street light bruised and naked and tell her yet again that the girl has disappeared."
"If the loss without end is present - and it is, she can feel it like she can feel her fingertips on her eyelids and the dust that sometimes sweeps along the street and disappears - it has been inside her as far back as she can remember."
"What mother doesn't take her own life when a child dies?"
"None of your white friends have wanted to hear any of your memories from the war, It hits you one day as you're sitting with one of them, listening to him talk about how he used to pick berries with his grandmother as a child. He goes into minute detail, pulling out photos from when he was in the bilberry patch in the woods, one where he is sticking out his tongue, pulling a face. Yes, but my friend Rozia was found in the rubble after a bombing, what do you think about that? you say and wait for him to respond."
One woman refugee searches in vain for her lost daughter until in utter desperation leaps over the cliffs to her death while another woman who is suffering the loss of her pregnancy witnesses the suicide. I am not spoiling anything here as this is all written on the back cover. Now that we have the side-by-side interwoven tragedies, this is where Balsam Karam's writing takes over.
"Can traumas be ranked?"
Playing with a variety of intersectional formats and perspectives, both women's stories become more apparent and we begin to discover the common threads that run through both of their narratives. Interwoven with compassionate and understated thriving writing, Karam delves into these women's experiences. They each have their traumas each of which is manifold and layered to the point where Karam challenges the reader to look at what is trauma, and what that looks like in a bodily sense, and the duress of migration and resettling. The Singularity begs the reader to question if we feel empathy as a universality or is it specific to each situation as we deem fit. I don't claim to have the answer, though I am thankful for writers like Balsam Karam for trying to find the answer.
"Have the missing ever returned she says and runs a hand over the wall and the bullet holes sharp in the middle of the wall - has spilled water ever been unspilled she says and falls silent."
Heartbreaking. Stunning. Gutwrenching. These are a few of the words I would use to describe my reading experience with The Singularity by Balsam Karam. With her many passages that I went back to reread, Saskia Vogel has done a wonderful translation so that we English-speaking readers get the privilege to read books like The Singularity. Balasam Karam is a literary talent that I will be keeping my eyes open for what they share with us next. Go pick up this book out on January 23 from Book*hug Press here in Canada.
Thank you to Book*hug Press for the ARC.
Thank you
"The great loss has already rolled in across the earth, grief and drought, a tattered sun-baked landscape cupped by two empty hands these days are not the days that once were and this place is a different place, the air close and old, and the city a hole between what came to be and what could have been."
"The children continue to take stones lost from the ruined wall and place them on their mountain, turning it into a home, raising it as a shelter."
"The inner distances are greater - between memory and memory and from experience to experience time no longer passes, and the woman does not know where she is or why, whether it was a year or a lifetime ago that the child was playing in her belly and the sun almost extinguished was setting over the sugar cane fields and the mountains, or whether she will again be consigned here tonight, to this place on the beach, to the here and now."
"From here she can see the movement of loss and doesn't know what to do; she sees it all the time and fears it as she sits there watching over the alley - she even sees it when the children for once seem to be laughing or playing, and fears it too in dreams when they emerge from the red street light bruised and naked and tell her yet again that the girl has disappeared."
"If the loss without end is present - and it is, she can feel it like she can feel her fingertips on her eyelids and the dust that sometimes sweeps along the street and disappears - it has been inside her as far back as she can remember."
"What mother doesn't take her own life when a child dies?"
"None of your white friends have wanted to hear any of your memories from the war, It hits you one day as you're sitting with one of them, listening to him talk about how he used to pick berries with his grandmother as a child. He goes into minute detail, pulling out photos from when he was in the bilberry patch in the woods, one where he is sticking out his tongue, pulling a face. Yes, but my friend Rozia was found in the rubble after a bombing, what do you think about that? you say and wait for him to respond."
February 14, 2024
I really enjoyed this novel THE SINGULARITY by Balsam Karam translated from the Swedish by Saskia Vogel! From the first section I wasn’t sure if I was going to enjoy this one because it starts off quite ambiguous from the narrator to the setting. At part two I started to like this book more as this section was written differently than the first and it’s told in second person. And then by the third part I was really enjoying this book! This section is more like vignettes. From the well thought out structure of each part written distinctly and the full circle moment of the end. This is quite a sad book dealing with grieving mothers but it’s written brilliantly. After I finished reading it and thinking about it more I really enjoyed it. I think the ending and how it’s all tied together will stay with me.
Thank you to Book*hug Press for my gifted review copy!
Thank you to Book*hug Press for my gifted review copy!
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March 21, 2024The following reviews have been shared by Text Publishing - publisher of The Singularity:
‘Balsam Karam writes at the limits of narrative, limning the boundary of loss where "no space remains between bodies in the singularity”. With a lucid intimacy, Karam braids a story of witness and motherhood that fractures from within only to rebuild memory and home on its own terms. The Singularity is a book of conviction where those who have been made to disappear find light and keep their secrets too.’
Shazia Hafiz Ramji, author of Port of Being
‘I don't know anyone who writes like Balsam Karam. She blows me away. Truly one of the most original and extraordinary voices to come out of Scandinavia in…forever.’
Fredrick Backman, author of A Man Called Otto
‘The Singularity is a novel about loss and longing—a mother who misses her child, children who miss their mother, and all of those who miss their country as they try to feel the new earth in their new land. A deeply moving work of fiction from a true voice of Scandinavia.’
Shahrnush Parsipur, author of Women Without Men: A Novel of Modern Iran
‘A profound and emblematic tale of women’s experience of war, displacement, and loss, of nameless mothers searching for their loved ones. Balsam Karam is a rare literary talent, with deep roots in one of the world’s oldest cultures of storytellers. The Singularity is a timeless work of art; it will be praised for years to come.’
Pirooz Jafari, author of Forty Nights
‘A knotty, sui generis evocation of mothers’ feelings of fear and loss.’
Kirkus
‘A brilliant and beautiful study of displacement—this tale of migration and motherhood is satisfyingly full of narrative surprises.’
Guardian
‘I cannot recall anyone else in contemporary Swedish literature who writes like Karam.’
Svenska Dagbladet
‘The Singularity is a journey into a black hole. A point without return.’
Jönköpings-Posten
‘The Singularity is a novel that appears to have been created from dark matter, elusive, giddying and with an enormous linguistic and narrative density.’
Expressen
‘The Singularity is elegant—and explosive—prose.’
Arbetarbladet
‘Disconnection, the exclusion of human beings, is one of several epicentres in The Singularity. Or rather, human beings as consumable goods…Balsam Karam is taking a major step forward in this new novel. Her linguistic exploration is admirable. So is her ability to allow a milieu to exist right on the border between fiction and reality.’
Borås Tidning
‘The Singularity is a novel that grows in strength, both in terms of structure and content. The linguistic awareness, as well as the daring stylistic techniques and the experiences described, show that Balsam Karam is an author to reckon with for years to come.’
Sydsvenskan
'Karam writes a prose that is sometimes musical, sometimes austere, sometimes light as a feather...Is Balsam Karam one of Sweden’s most talented, original and relevant rising stars of literature? I believe so. I hope she never stops writing.’
Dagens Nyheter
‘[A] supple and finely wrought narrative that takes in questions of motherhood, migration, and the plight of refugees…And resists the easy clichés and tropes that sometimes diminish fictional portrayals of migrant experience.’
Age/SMH
‘The Singularity is frequently heart-in-your-mouth reading.’
Rumpus
‘A distilled meditation on the despairs of motherhood, home and belonging. Brutal. Urgent. Exhilarating.’
Bram Presser
‘In Karam’s novel, a singularity becomes an unforgettable metaphor for the trauma of statelessness, which brings about the profound collapse of human lives in ways seemingly imperceptible to those outside.’
Saturday Paper
‘Balsam Karam writes at the limits of narrative, limning the boundary of loss where "no space remains between bodies in the singularity”. With a lucid intimacy, Karam braids a story of witness and motherhood that fractures from within only to rebuild memory and home on its own terms. The Singularity is a book of conviction where those who have been made to disappear find light and keep their secrets too.’
Shazia Hafiz Ramji, author of Port of Being
‘I don't know anyone who writes like Balsam Karam. She blows me away. Truly one of the most original and extraordinary voices to come out of Scandinavia in…forever.’
Fredrick Backman, author of A Man Called Otto
‘The Singularity is a novel about loss and longing—a mother who misses her child, children who miss their mother, and all of those who miss their country as they try to feel the new earth in their new land. A deeply moving work of fiction from a true voice of Scandinavia.’
Shahrnush Parsipur, author of Women Without Men: A Novel of Modern Iran
‘A profound and emblematic tale of women’s experience of war, displacement, and loss, of nameless mothers searching for their loved ones. Balsam Karam is a rare literary talent, with deep roots in one of the world’s oldest cultures of storytellers. The Singularity is a timeless work of art; it will be praised for years to come.’
Pirooz Jafari, author of Forty Nights
‘A knotty, sui generis evocation of mothers’ feelings of fear and loss.’
Kirkus
‘A brilliant and beautiful study of displacement—this tale of migration and motherhood is satisfyingly full of narrative surprises.’
Guardian
‘I cannot recall anyone else in contemporary Swedish literature who writes like Karam.’
Svenska Dagbladet
‘The Singularity is a journey into a black hole. A point without return.’
Jönköpings-Posten
‘The Singularity is a novel that appears to have been created from dark matter, elusive, giddying and with an enormous linguistic and narrative density.’
Expressen
‘The Singularity is elegant—and explosive—prose.’
Arbetarbladet
‘Disconnection, the exclusion of human beings, is one of several epicentres in The Singularity. Or rather, human beings as consumable goods…Balsam Karam is taking a major step forward in this new novel. Her linguistic exploration is admirable. So is her ability to allow a milieu to exist right on the border between fiction and reality.’
Borås Tidning
‘The Singularity is a novel that grows in strength, both in terms of structure and content. The linguistic awareness, as well as the daring stylistic techniques and the experiences described, show that Balsam Karam is an author to reckon with for years to come.’
Sydsvenskan
'Karam writes a prose that is sometimes musical, sometimes austere, sometimes light as a feather...Is Balsam Karam one of Sweden’s most talented, original and relevant rising stars of literature? I believe so. I hope she never stops writing.’
Dagens Nyheter
‘[A] supple and finely wrought narrative that takes in questions of motherhood, migration, and the plight of refugees…And resists the easy clichés and tropes that sometimes diminish fictional portrayals of migrant experience.’
Age/SMH
‘The Singularity is frequently heart-in-your-mouth reading.’
Rumpus
‘A distilled meditation on the despairs of motherhood, home and belonging. Brutal. Urgent. Exhilarating.’
Bram Presser
‘In Karam’s novel, a singularity becomes an unforgettable metaphor for the trauma of statelessness, which brings about the profound collapse of human lives in ways seemingly imperceptible to those outside.’
Saturday Paper
January 21, 2024
This is a difficult review, to be honest. I found the subject and the themes of the book so relevant and I was really looking forward to getting immersed in a reality - unfortunately - so common, yet to different from my own, but the writing didn't quite captivate me and, even though I read this quickly and it didn't feel dense or overly complicated, I found myself feeling detached and a bit bored throughout the book.
I would still recommend this book to everyone who wants to explore themes such as immigration, the reality of refugees and the profound racism and xenophobia they often face. However, I think this is the kind of book that had a lot of potential, but didn't quite deliver - at least, not for me.
I would still recommend this book to everyone who wants to explore themes such as immigration, the reality of refugees and the profound racism and xenophobia they often face. However, I think this is the kind of book that had a lot of potential, but didn't quite deliver - at least, not for me.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 160 reviews