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Sort hund
Familien bor på Ytterholmen, helt ytterst i havgapet. Da moren drukner, under uklare omstendigheter, må far, datter og sønn leve videre alene. Livet på øya er enkelt, det er huset og havet, det er sauene og fisken, og det Guds nåde i all slags vær. For havet gir og havet tar, slik har vært siden sønnen kan huske. Men en ny tid er på vei, på fastlandet bygges fabrikken, og snart er det ikke lenger bruk for folket på holmene.
Gudstro og fremtidstro står opp mot hverandre, men også plassen naturen selv tar i livene deres. For hva er egentlig verdien av en verden på kanten av havet, og hva er kostnaden av en ny, felles fremtidsvisjon?
Sort hund er en syngende, ekspansiv roman. I en omskrivning av den klassiske norske kystfortellingen gir romanen leseren et innblikk i den store rikdommen på selv det mest forblåste sted.
Gudstro og fremtidstro står opp mot hverandre, men også plassen naturen selv tar i livene deres. For hva er egentlig verdien av en verden på kanten av havet, og hva er kostnaden av en ny, felles fremtidsvisjon?
Sort hund er en syngende, ekspansiv roman. I en omskrivning av den klassiske norske kystfortellingen gir romanen leseren et innblikk i den store rikdommen på selv det mest forblåste sted.
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First published September 15, 2025
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Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews
October 20, 2025
Denne traff meg i magen, Ida skriver skikkelig godt.
November 23, 2025
En hyllest til det enkle liv.
August 30, 2026
There are novels that contain a life because they tally what happened during it, and then there are novels that contain a life because they return us to the felt interiority of being a consciousness carried through time, altered by experience, and forced to inhabit a world whose meaning is never fully separable from the mind perceiving it. Sort hund belongs to the latter species. And I don't mean this in the ordinary sense that Frisch has accomplished the already rather stupefying feat of compressing the enormous temporal acreage of a human life into something this slight, this formatically unassuming, a little slip of a novella scarcely substantial enough to seem capable of bearing the weight placed upon it.
Granted, that alone WOULD be remarkable. Whole decades pass beneath the hand with the noiselessness of shadows crossing water, and eventually a life that once seemed to extend in every direction discovers itself possessed of a direction after all. Forwards. Always forwards. Towards the black dog, towards the sea, towards whatever name one gives the terminus because the thing itself remains inaccessible to language except through the distortions of figurative thought that make it conceptually habitable.
But chronological compression isn't Frisch's greatest achievement. The greater feat is phenomenological. She doesn't merely move her protagonist through age, she moves consciousness through the changing terms on which reality is apprehended.
The world of the curious child is not the world of the disillusioned adolescent is not the world of the tabescent old man, although the rocks remain rocks, work remains work, death remains death, the body remains the body (until it doesn't), and the sea continues its vast salt indifference to whatever meanings human beings drag to its edge and ask it to ratify. The external world changes, certainly, but the deeper metamorphosis occurs in the instrument perceiving it. The eye ages. The question ages. Mystery itself ages. Life doesn't.
Frisch understands, with the cold lucidity of something long exposed to salt and wind, that life is something quieter and much more difficult to name. Not certainty, certainly not enlightenment, but a sort of exhausted hospitality towards irresolution. An armistice signed with existence after realizing that existence was never at war with you personally in the first place. As a child, meaning is everywhere. Reality is still promiscuously significant. Nature has not yet been demoted into scenery, death can't merely be an occurrence because a child hasn't acquired the intellectual filing system by which adults make the unbearable administratively manageable. Everything speaks, everything signifies. A black dog can be the devil because why should the visible world end precisely at the frontier adults have decided to call reasonable?
Frisch never stands above the child armed with the later knowledge of adulthood, smiling indulgently at what he once believed. The child's supernatural explanation and the adult world's supposedly more sober account are portrayed as rival technologies for surviving the unsurvivable. What is myth, after all, but grief given anatomy? What is explanation but fear forced into legible grammar? Somewhere between a child's analogical intelligence (or pre-taxonomic imagination) and adult rationalism lies the entire human enterprise, our endless fabrication of causal structures around the central scandal that things happen at all. After childhood comes adolescence, and with it that great inaugural vandalism of consciousness. Suspicion. The child receives the world. The adolescent cross-examines it and the inherited structures that begin to show their joins. God, adults, tradition, propriety, the rhythms everyone treats as though they're carved into the bedrock of creation itself, all acquire the faintly embarrassing appearance of metaphysical furniture turned over, the manufacturer's label discovered underneath. This is what youthful skepticism is before it ossifies into intellectual posture. The discovery that the things presented to you as eternal may simply be... habits.
Frisch is extraordinarily precise in her description of this migration from wonder into doubt and from doubt into skepticism. To lose belief is also to lose language in which certain immensities were once dicible. A child gains explanatory autonomy and, simultaneously, inherits the awful responsibility of having to manufacture meaning where meaning once appeared to precede it. If that makes sense. God recedes, and the human being doesn't become free. The vacancy fills. With work. With duty. With usefulness. With the future. With all the little secular sacraments by which society reassures itself that a life properly occupied is therefore a life properly lived. And this, I think, is where Sort hund becomes much more than a stunningly written miniature about one life, one place, or one vanishing mode of existence. It begins asking an almost indecently large question in an almost indecently sere way. What happens when one system of meaning gives way to another, and why are we so eager to mistake the replacement for liberation?
Church and work, for example, initially seem to belong to opposite orders, one metaphysical, the other material, but Frisch gradually reveals the clandestine kinship between them. Both organize time. Both discipline the body (and the mind). Both convert repetition into virtue. Both locate individual worth inside structures that precede the individual. Both possess liturgies, hierarchies, prescribed gestures, sanctioned futures. Both answer the terrifying openness of existence by giving a person something to do at a particular hour. One says amen. Another says earn. Perhaps society is simply the great polyphonic accumulation of voices telling the bewildered animal what to do with its Tuesday. However, Frisch demonstrates that work is also intimacy with matter. Repetition is also care. Obligation can be burden and belonging simultaneously. To be needed can imprison us, but it can also tether us lovingly to the world. A task is sometimes an imposition and sometimes the thread preventing a person from falling through the weave of existence altogether. That ambiguity in Frisch's writing matters. We live in a culture pathologically hungry to separate liberation from constraint, as though freedom is simply what remains once every demand has been removed. But a demandless life isn't necessarily a free life either. Human beings aren't built for existential zero gravity. We require resistance. Attachment has weight. Love makes claims. Community inconveniences. Bodies impose schedules no ideology can abolish. The question is not whether a life should contain obligation. It's which obligations enlarge our humanity and which consume it. Frisch stages all of this without allowing her characters to become philosophical sock puppets. No podium is wheeled suddenly into the landscape so that someone can announce the crisis of modernity. Thank God. Or, you know, thank the motor factory. Choose your liturgy. The argument remains where arguments about life belong: inside life. Inside the small abrasion produced when the shape of a human being rubs against the shape prescribed for them by their historical moment.
Frisch's prose is simple, but it's not lightweight. It has the density of lived experience, weight carried in apparently ordinary forms. It's simple in the sense that simplicity is the property of description, never the thing described.
A life can be materially sparse and phenomenologically infinite. A person may inhabit a minuscule geographical radius while containing distances no cartographer could traverse. The great condescension of modernity is to imagine that because a person's world contains fewer options, fewer consumer permutations, it must therefore contain less consciousness. Frisch seems to understand that sometimes fewer things make each thing enormous. A place known intimately ceases to be location and becomes an extension of the nervous system. The natural world isn't "nature," that sanitizing metropolitan abstraction, but calendar, threat, livelihood, memory, theology, clock. To live close to the physical conditions of one's survival is to live in a reality that has not yet been padded into metaphor. Life's not symbolic of life. It's life.
I will always have a major soft spot for literature willing to acknowledge how much of human existence consists of doing things while not knowing why one's alive. Fiction interested in existential questions so often can't resist theatricalizing them. Someone stares into a mirror. Someone delivers the polished despair of a person who’s apparently rehearsed their ontological crisis for a graduate seminar. But actual existence is generally less accommodating. Actual existential dread has potatoes to deal with. The universe doesn't cancel tomorrow's work because one's metaphysics have collapsed. Frisch knows that this may be the rawest thing about life, not that suffering is spectacular, but that it's forced into coexistence with the mundane. The heart breaks, and the hand continues. Grief arrives, and something still has to be mended, carried, cooked, cleaned, harvested, earned.
We imagine the monumental moments are the ones that constitute us because they're the ones memory illuminates most dramatically, but life's built far more extensively from all the unrecorded Tuesdays between catastrophes. The thousands upon thousands of minute accommodations by which the body consents to another day. The prose in Sort hund seems built from this knowledge. It's extraordinarily beautiful, but it never rouges its subject into prettiness. It doesn't behave as decoration applied to hardship after the fact. Its beauty feels endogenous, pressure-born, as though lyricism is simply what happens when attention becomes sufficiently exact.
There are writers who make language conspicuous by enlarging it, and there are writers who make it conspicuous by stripping everything extraneous away until each remaining word seems to possess the molecular weight of stone. Frisch belongs to the latter order. Her sentences never perform their own literariness. They simply are literature, with none of the self-consciousness of having become it. They don't thrust their little laps, demanding inspection of the craftsmanship. Their musicality feels almost prelinguistic, something tidal in the recurrence, a rhythm older than rhetoric. The prose seems to know when language must speak and when it must get out of the way of the thing itself. And that restraint is not minimalism, not emotional anorexia masquerading as sophistication. It's concentration. Everything is boiled down until what remains is not less life, but life strengthened per measure. One could pour whole family sagas into a novel and still come away having encountered less of existence than Frisch fits into these pages. Because comprehensiveness has nothing to do with volume. To catalogue every year isn't necessarily to capture time. To describe every event is not necessarily to capture a life. The extraordinary temporal velocity of Sort hund never feels rushed to me because Frisch isn't attempting to preserve the quantity of lived time. She preserves its mutations. She catches the points at which the same world becomes newly intelligible, then newly unintelligible again. Acceptance, when it finally arrives, isn't the answer that retroactively solves everything before it. Acceptance is not understanding perfected. It's the relinquishment of understanding as a prerequisite for participation. Perhaps that's what adulthood eventually is, if one's fortunate enough to reach its quieter hinterlands, not the moment the questions are answered, but the moment we stop holding life hostage until it answers them.
What makes this novella feel so much larger than itself is its recognition that a human being is never merely the age it presently occupies. We're archaeological sites of every consciousness through which we've passed. We don't leave our former selves behind, we bury them alive inside us. And occasionally something, a smell, a death, a landscape, a sentence, a black dog walking towards the sea, causes the earth to shift, and there they all are again, every person we have ever been breathing simultaneously beneath the ribs. Sort hund doesn't explain life. It makes life recognizable. Not life burnished into story, not existence arranged afterwards into the flattening geometry of a deeper meaning, but life before the editors arrive. Perhaps that's what Frisch has written here, not the chronology of a single life, but a phenomenological conspectus of the asymmetry between historical insignificance and subjective infinitude, the way a life can scarcely register in the world and yet, from within, contain a world entire.
Granted, that alone WOULD be remarkable. Whole decades pass beneath the hand with the noiselessness of shadows crossing water, and eventually a life that once seemed to extend in every direction discovers itself possessed of a direction after all. Forwards. Always forwards. Towards the black dog, towards the sea, towards whatever name one gives the terminus because the thing itself remains inaccessible to language except through the distortions of figurative thought that make it conceptually habitable.
But chronological compression isn't Frisch's greatest achievement. The greater feat is phenomenological. She doesn't merely move her protagonist through age, she moves consciousness through the changing terms on which reality is apprehended.
The world of the curious child is not the world of the disillusioned adolescent is not the world of the tabescent old man, although the rocks remain rocks, work remains work, death remains death, the body remains the body (until it doesn't), and the sea continues its vast salt indifference to whatever meanings human beings drag to its edge and ask it to ratify. The external world changes, certainly, but the deeper metamorphosis occurs in the instrument perceiving it. The eye ages. The question ages. Mystery itself ages. Life doesn't.
Frisch understands, with the cold lucidity of something long exposed to salt and wind, that life is something quieter and much more difficult to name. Not certainty, certainly not enlightenment, but a sort of exhausted hospitality towards irresolution. An armistice signed with existence after realizing that existence was never at war with you personally in the first place. As a child, meaning is everywhere. Reality is still promiscuously significant. Nature has not yet been demoted into scenery, death can't merely be an occurrence because a child hasn't acquired the intellectual filing system by which adults make the unbearable administratively manageable. Everything speaks, everything signifies. A black dog can be the devil because why should the visible world end precisely at the frontier adults have decided to call reasonable?
Frisch never stands above the child armed with the later knowledge of adulthood, smiling indulgently at what he once believed. The child's supernatural explanation and the adult world's supposedly more sober account are portrayed as rival technologies for surviving the unsurvivable. What is myth, after all, but grief given anatomy? What is explanation but fear forced into legible grammar? Somewhere between a child's analogical intelligence (or pre-taxonomic imagination) and adult rationalism lies the entire human enterprise, our endless fabrication of causal structures around the central scandal that things happen at all. After childhood comes adolescence, and with it that great inaugural vandalism of consciousness. Suspicion. The child receives the world. The adolescent cross-examines it and the inherited structures that begin to show their joins. God, adults, tradition, propriety, the rhythms everyone treats as though they're carved into the bedrock of creation itself, all acquire the faintly embarrassing appearance of metaphysical furniture turned over, the manufacturer's label discovered underneath. This is what youthful skepticism is before it ossifies into intellectual posture. The discovery that the things presented to you as eternal may simply be... habits.
Frisch is extraordinarily precise in her description of this migration from wonder into doubt and from doubt into skepticism. To lose belief is also to lose language in which certain immensities were once dicible. A child gains explanatory autonomy and, simultaneously, inherits the awful responsibility of having to manufacture meaning where meaning once appeared to precede it. If that makes sense. God recedes, and the human being doesn't become free. The vacancy fills. With work. With duty. With usefulness. With the future. With all the little secular sacraments by which society reassures itself that a life properly occupied is therefore a life properly lived. And this, I think, is where Sort hund becomes much more than a stunningly written miniature about one life, one place, or one vanishing mode of existence. It begins asking an almost indecently large question in an almost indecently sere way. What happens when one system of meaning gives way to another, and why are we so eager to mistake the replacement for liberation?
Church and work, for example, initially seem to belong to opposite orders, one metaphysical, the other material, but Frisch gradually reveals the clandestine kinship between them. Both organize time. Both discipline the body (and the mind). Both convert repetition into virtue. Both locate individual worth inside structures that precede the individual. Both possess liturgies, hierarchies, prescribed gestures, sanctioned futures. Both answer the terrifying openness of existence by giving a person something to do at a particular hour. One says amen. Another says earn. Perhaps society is simply the great polyphonic accumulation of voices telling the bewildered animal what to do with its Tuesday. However, Frisch demonstrates that work is also intimacy with matter. Repetition is also care. Obligation can be burden and belonging simultaneously. To be needed can imprison us, but it can also tether us lovingly to the world. A task is sometimes an imposition and sometimes the thread preventing a person from falling through the weave of existence altogether. That ambiguity in Frisch's writing matters. We live in a culture pathologically hungry to separate liberation from constraint, as though freedom is simply what remains once every demand has been removed. But a demandless life isn't necessarily a free life either. Human beings aren't built for existential zero gravity. We require resistance. Attachment has weight. Love makes claims. Community inconveniences. Bodies impose schedules no ideology can abolish. The question is not whether a life should contain obligation. It's which obligations enlarge our humanity and which consume it. Frisch stages all of this without allowing her characters to become philosophical sock puppets. No podium is wheeled suddenly into the landscape so that someone can announce the crisis of modernity. Thank God. Or, you know, thank the motor factory. Choose your liturgy. The argument remains where arguments about life belong: inside life. Inside the small abrasion produced when the shape of a human being rubs against the shape prescribed for them by their historical moment.
Frisch's prose is simple, but it's not lightweight. It has the density of lived experience, weight carried in apparently ordinary forms. It's simple in the sense that simplicity is the property of description, never the thing described.
A life can be materially sparse and phenomenologically infinite. A person may inhabit a minuscule geographical radius while containing distances no cartographer could traverse. The great condescension of modernity is to imagine that because a person's world contains fewer options, fewer consumer permutations, it must therefore contain less consciousness. Frisch seems to understand that sometimes fewer things make each thing enormous. A place known intimately ceases to be location and becomes an extension of the nervous system. The natural world isn't "nature," that sanitizing metropolitan abstraction, but calendar, threat, livelihood, memory, theology, clock. To live close to the physical conditions of one's survival is to live in a reality that has not yet been padded into metaphor. Life's not symbolic of life. It's life.
I will always have a major soft spot for literature willing to acknowledge how much of human existence consists of doing things while not knowing why one's alive. Fiction interested in existential questions so often can't resist theatricalizing them. Someone stares into a mirror. Someone delivers the polished despair of a person who’s apparently rehearsed their ontological crisis for a graduate seminar. But actual existence is generally less accommodating. Actual existential dread has potatoes to deal with. The universe doesn't cancel tomorrow's work because one's metaphysics have collapsed. Frisch knows that this may be the rawest thing about life, not that suffering is spectacular, but that it's forced into coexistence with the mundane. The heart breaks, and the hand continues. Grief arrives, and something still has to be mended, carried, cooked, cleaned, harvested, earned.
We imagine the monumental moments are the ones that constitute us because they're the ones memory illuminates most dramatically, but life's built far more extensively from all the unrecorded Tuesdays between catastrophes. The thousands upon thousands of minute accommodations by which the body consents to another day. The prose in Sort hund seems built from this knowledge. It's extraordinarily beautiful, but it never rouges its subject into prettiness. It doesn't behave as decoration applied to hardship after the fact. Its beauty feels endogenous, pressure-born, as though lyricism is simply what happens when attention becomes sufficiently exact.
There are writers who make language conspicuous by enlarging it, and there are writers who make it conspicuous by stripping everything extraneous away until each remaining word seems to possess the molecular weight of stone. Frisch belongs to the latter order. Her sentences never perform their own literariness. They simply are literature, with none of the self-consciousness of having become it. They don't thrust their little laps, demanding inspection of the craftsmanship. Their musicality feels almost prelinguistic, something tidal in the recurrence, a rhythm older than rhetoric. The prose seems to know when language must speak and when it must get out of the way of the thing itself. And that restraint is not minimalism, not emotional anorexia masquerading as sophistication. It's concentration. Everything is boiled down until what remains is not less life, but life strengthened per measure. One could pour whole family sagas into a novel and still come away having encountered less of existence than Frisch fits into these pages. Because comprehensiveness has nothing to do with volume. To catalogue every year isn't necessarily to capture time. To describe every event is not necessarily to capture a life. The extraordinary temporal velocity of Sort hund never feels rushed to me because Frisch isn't attempting to preserve the quantity of lived time. She preserves its mutations. She catches the points at which the same world becomes newly intelligible, then newly unintelligible again. Acceptance, when it finally arrives, isn't the answer that retroactively solves everything before it. Acceptance is not understanding perfected. It's the relinquishment of understanding as a prerequisite for participation. Perhaps that's what adulthood eventually is, if one's fortunate enough to reach its quieter hinterlands, not the moment the questions are answered, but the moment we stop holding life hostage until it answers them.
What makes this novella feel so much larger than itself is its recognition that a human being is never merely the age it presently occupies. We're archaeological sites of every consciousness through which we've passed. We don't leave our former selves behind, we bury them alive inside us. And occasionally something, a smell, a death, a landscape, a sentence, a black dog walking towards the sea, causes the earth to shift, and there they all are again, every person we have ever been breathing simultaneously beneath the ribs. Sort hund doesn't explain life. It makes life recognizable. Not life burnished into story, not existence arranged afterwards into the flattening geometry of a deeper meaning, but life before the editors arrive. Perhaps that's what Frisch has written here, not the chronology of a single life, but a phenomenological conspectus of the asymmetry between historical insignificance and subjective infinitude, the way a life can scarcely register in the world and yet, from within, contain a world entire.
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October 21, 2025Den var ret fed den her. Virkelig et smukt og meget poetisk sprog. Minder mig en smule om Jon Kalman Stefansson<3
November 17, 2025
En rolig og lavmælt roman fra havgapet, som ikke slipper taket i deg
https://tinesundal.blogspot.com/2025/...
https://tinesundal.blogspot.com/2025/...
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April 16, 2026Absolutt bra skrevet, men ble nok litt for kunstnerisk for min smak😅
October 19, 2025
Særegen, vakker roman, med en repeterende stil som fungerer fint. Språklig er dette en veldig bra bok. Langsom framdrift, minner om Fosse. Den siste tredelen er svakere, det blir famlende, «mer av det samme», historien blir hengende i luften. Hva ville boka egentlig fortelle?
December 7, 2025
Repeterende, langsomtflytende og suggererende stil. Minnet meg om skrivestilen til Jon Fosse, men med litt kraftigere.. motor? Sirklene er større, men også mer forutsigbare. Elsket avslutningen, livet går i sirkel. Dette var Fosse og ikkje Fosse på same tid. Amen, amen, amen.
August 30, 2026
Ida Frisch’s “Sort hund” gav jeg gerne endnu flere stjerner end bare fem!
Det er en lille bog på bare 132 sider, men det er et meget smukt værk! Fortællerstemmen tilhører en unavngivet dreng og senere mand, der lever på en lillebitte klippeø, Ytterholmen, og han fortæller om livet der på øen, et liv som byder på hårdt arbejde og smuk, ren natur. Alt er faktisk så enkelt, bortset fra at drengens mor ikke længere er der. Hun er død. Folk siger, at hun faldt på klipperne og druknede, men drengen ved, at hun gik med en sort hund ud i havet og forsvandt. En sort hund, der er djævelen.
Drengen fortæller om livet på øen, fiskeriet, arbejdet med fårene og lammene, de farlige skær, havet, dasset og vinden, samhørighed med naturen og alle turene over til fastlandet for at gå i kirke og høre præstens formaninger. Han fortæller om, hvordan søsteren har taget morens plads i huset med at lave mad efter opskrifterne i et grønt hæfte - indtil hun flytter væk fra øen og tager hæftet med. Om fortælleren er lidt enfoldig eller bare elsker sin afsondrede ø og naturen der, vil jeg lade andre vurdere.
Sproget er helt unikt. Det er et helt enkelt ordforråd, som først illustrerer, at drengen er lille og sidenhen lever et afsondret liv, hvor de ikke taler ret meget indbyrdes, men der er også så mange gentagelser, at det er rytmisk som et digt. Det er i hvert fald utrolig smukt og en stor nydelse at læse.
Det er en lille bog på bare 132 sider, men det er et meget smukt værk! Fortællerstemmen tilhører en unavngivet dreng og senere mand, der lever på en lillebitte klippeø, Ytterholmen, og han fortæller om livet der på øen, et liv som byder på hårdt arbejde og smuk, ren natur. Alt er faktisk så enkelt, bortset fra at drengens mor ikke længere er der. Hun er død. Folk siger, at hun faldt på klipperne og druknede, men drengen ved, at hun gik med en sort hund ud i havet og forsvandt. En sort hund, der er djævelen.
Drengen fortæller om livet på øen, fiskeriet, arbejdet med fårene og lammene, de farlige skær, havet, dasset og vinden, samhørighed med naturen og alle turene over til fastlandet for at gå i kirke og høre præstens formaninger. Han fortæller om, hvordan søsteren har taget morens plads i huset med at lave mad efter opskrifterne i et grønt hæfte - indtil hun flytter væk fra øen og tager hæftet med. Om fortælleren er lidt enfoldig eller bare elsker sin afsondrede ø og naturen der, vil jeg lade andre vurdere.
Sproget er helt unikt. Det er et helt enkelt ordforråd, som først illustrerer, at drengen er lille og sidenhen lever et afsondret liv, hvor de ikke taler ret meget indbyrdes, men der er også så mange gentagelser, at det er rytmisk som et digt. Det er i hvert fald utrolig smukt og en stor nydelse at læse.
August 24, 2026
Sort Hund er en kort men intens læseoplevelse. Den er reflekterende og eksistentiel, og historien understøttes af et poetisk og fængende sprog. Jeg sidder tilbage med en følelse af vemod og glæde på samme tid, for Sort Hund er en hyldest til livet men også en erkendelse af den cyklus, hvor døden er en naturlig overgang til en ny virkelighed.
Sort Hund står i reolen ved siden af Til Havs af Dörte Hansen og Himmerige og Helvede af Jón Kalman Stefánsson, for det er her, den hører til. Nærværende sprog og en fantastisk historie.
Sort Hund står i reolen ved siden af Til Havs af Dörte Hansen og Himmerige og Helvede af Jón Kalman Stefánsson, for det er her, den hører til. Nærværende sprog og en fantastisk historie.
May 25, 2026
Ikke helt min stil. Godt språk, følte bare den var lik mye annet jeg har lest i det siste.
August 6, 2026
Så fin en lille roman om at bo på en ø og efterhånden vide helt ind i hjertet, hvor man hører til.
Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews