One of Us Is Sleeping

by Josefine Klougart, Martin Aitken (Translator)

The English-language debut from one of Denmark's most exciting, celebrated young writers, One of Us Is Sleeping is a haunting novel about loss in all its forms.

As she returns home to visit her mother who is dying of cancer, the narrator recounts a brief, intense love affair, as well as the grief and disillusionment that follow its end. The book's striking imagery and magnificent prose underpin its principal theme: the jarring contrast between the recollection of stability, your parents, your childhood home, your love, and the continual endings that we experience throughout our lives.

A true-to-life, deeply poetic novel that works in the same vein as Anne Carson, One of Us Is Sleeping has won Klougart countless accolades and award nominations, including the Readers' Book Award, securing her place as a major new voice in world literature.

Genres: Fiction, Contemporary, Denmark, Novels, Danish, Literary Fiction, Scandinavian Literature

236 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2012

Reviews

[Paula Mota]

DNF

Há uma espécie de beleza neste facto de nos encontrarmos ali, costas com costas; quando não nos podemos afastar mais um do outro, damos de caras um com o outro, de novo. Eu sou como um muro que te atravessou, e o teu corpo está triste com o peso que isso lhe traz.

Tentei ler este livro em inglês e, um mês depois, tentei lê-lo em português, por isso, parece que só me falta aprender dinamarquês para o ler no original. Mas não creio que o problema seja a tradução. É antes o estilo afectado e disparatado, é o abuso das repetições e das comparações.

Ele está sempre ausente de si mesmo. Está além no meio das groselhas, a comer até não poder mais. Até os olhos ficarem a parecer groselhas. Ela está translúcida, sonha amiúde sentir-se maciça. Alguém havia de tocá-la e pensar: aqui está um corpo. Aqui está a carne, mesmo. Mas ela apenas paira. Ela é a poeira que paira no estábulo, em todos os feixes de luz, ela é o rasto de alguns insetos na poeira que se poisou.

[Rebecka · Rating 1 out of 5]

This is possibly the most boring book I've ever read. Perhaps stating one thing and then its opposite and then throwing in a misplaced colon is considered artistic -- I only found it annoying.

Most of all, I found this book lazy. It's just a jumbled mess of sentences about the narrator's mother or exes and yes, some of the sentences are actually great, but how hard is that to accomplish when there's no story, no complexity? It's just weird sentence after weird sentence and it all feels so fake, so constructed. Not to mention boring. I don't know how many times I started reading a page I'd already read and didn't notice until the last sentence.

[Astrid · Rating 1 out of 5]

Ja, den der sov var mig

[Chad Post]

I am the publisher of this book. Proud publisher. It's really fantastic.

[Claudia · Rating 2 out of 5]

Que livro chato. Nem consegui ler as últimas cinquenta páginas. Um dia, quem sabe volte a ele com outra disposição.

[Natalie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Već dugo nisam čitala ovako nešto ugodno, čarobno. Misli koje natjeraju da bolje pogledam taj zimski krajolik u snijegu koji me okružuje. Poetično i smirujuće. Oni koji očekuju radnju, odmah neka zaobiđu, (jer će spavati). Stvarno je glupo i šteta ovoj knjizi davati ''jedinice'' a pogotovo se ''izvlačiti'' da prijevod nije dobar. (Smiješno!!) Ovo je ''nešto više'' kroz njen jezik i razmišljanja...možeš uvidjeti jednostavnost, ljepotu, i svoje osjećaje. Kako naslov kaže: Jedno od nas spava- ja kao čitatelj nisam spavala :)

[Jenny (Reading Envy) · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a novel to read in a certain mood. It is very atmospheric, emotion-based, musings on death and love and loss. There is not a lot of plot, almost zero dialogue, but this is not a complaint for me. The novel is marketed as being about a woman dealing with her mother's cancer but I found that to be a background fact; most of the story and reflections are about her romantic relationship. I found my best strategy was to read this in between other books, and just linger over a few pages at a time, almost like poetry.

Here is an example of the writing (noting that I had a review copy so this may not be final version)
"Natural disasters don't distinguish between what is foreign and what is not. Nothing stays as you left it. The return home is impossible, one must reconcile oneself with a face that is foreign.

The landscape doesn't miss you. The hills have not pined. To the hills, one person is no more or less foreign than another. All people are always both parts: there is always some recognition, something shred, and no one willing to be shunned in that way. Marginalized like foreign bodies, infants mixed up at birth, planets likewise confused...."

I received a review copy in exchange for an honest review from the publisher via Edelweiss.

[Jeff Bursey · Rating 4 out of 5]

Poetic, impressionistic, set in the winter or autumn more than any other season, which allows the unnamed narrator (in 1st and 3rd person) to set her thoughts against the most snow-bound backdrop or with apple trees laden with fruit, while contemplating "Death," depression, cancer, the loss of a loved one or two men in her life (though loss may be the wrong word in one instance, maybe 'less firmly held than before' would be more accurate), with the occasional resonating insight. Slow-paced at first, and only a little less slow as one goes on. Clouds of thought and feeling, though some may view them as fog.

[Julia Eriksson · Rating 5 out of 5]

En fantastisk bok med stillsam handling och otroligt språk. Jag tyckte så mycket om att befinna mig i Klougarts litterära värld. En av oss sover var också utmärkt för att injicera inspiration till det egna skrivandet.

”Vi gick upp, det var tyst. Jag vet inte, vi gick hemåt. Jag var släckt och inte som en törst men som ett ljus. Det är det sorgligaste jag har upplevt i hela mitt liv.”

[Helena Hall · Rating 4 out of 5]

Kan godt forstå, at Klougart er blevet sammenlignet med Virginia Woolf. Sproget er dryppende lyrisk melankoli. Nærmest mere poesi end prosa. Handler om brud og død, at det er det samme. Den er umulig at gøre sig klog på, og det er så befriende. At den ikke vil forstås. At den bare ufortrødent væver ordspind, om gyvel, mørke, æbler og tab, om alt det uvirkelige, som undviger sproget.

[Stina Haraldsson · Rating 4 out of 5]

Blir inte riktigt klok på den här boken och vad jag tycker om den. Först blir jag irriterad. Den är poetisk, abstrakt, kanske pretentiös, nästan bara ordekvilibrism. Sedan försöker jag ge upp tanken på att ta in den fulla vidden av varje mening, jag läser delvis långsammare och mer koncentrerat. Jag tvingas njuta av den mer i stunden än av andra böcker. Det finns inte en handling att minnas, riktigt, utan mest vackert sammanfogade ord i meningar sprängfyllda av mening. Det är svårt att ta till sig den fulla vidden av texten hela tiden. Jag måste koncentrera mig, hänge mig åt språket, ge upp behovet av struktur. Inte för att det inte alls finns en struktur, men för att den inte är linjär och konventionell. I slutändan gillar jag boken för dess språk och intelligens. Jag läser nästan aldrig om böcker, men den här kan jag tänka mig att läsa om. Det var omöjligt för mig att ta in meningen med alla metaforspäckade meningar under en enda läsning. Det finns inte en berättelse jag måste glömma för att läsa boken på nytt. Bara ett språk och en massa bilder och känslor att återupptäcka. Samtidigt längtar jag hela tiden lite efter att boken ska ta slut. Det gör jag ofta, även med bra böcker, men det drar ner betyget lite. Kanske är jag en för uppstressad människa för att helt kunna njuta av den här sortens bok.

[João Reis · Rating 1 out of 5]

Kedeligggggggg.....

[Bert · Rating 5 out of 5]

De boeken die je leest in eenzelfde periode ga je vaak op één of andere manier met elkaar verbinden, iets waar ik me althans voortdurend op betrap. En soms worden die verbindingen door anderen aan elkaar geknoopt. Zo kom ik de laatste maanden vaak dezelfde auteurs en werken tegen in de boeken die ik lees, in de besprekingen die ik erover opzoek, in de bronnen en inspiraties van de auteurs,...

In een review van Een van ons slaapt werden onderstaande auteurs en citaten weergegeven als invloeden op Klougarts boek. Laat het nu net drie schrijfsters en werken zijn die ik het voorbije half jaar opvallend vaak ben tegengekomen als referentiefiguren in wat ik las en in wat ik las over wat ik las.

“We must be rooted in the absence of a place.” - Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace

“When one woke at all, one’s relations changed.” - Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

“Lo how before a great snow, before the gliding emptiness of the night coming on us, our lanterns throw shapes of old companions and a cold pause after.” - Anne Carson, Decreation

Ik heb deze citaten geleend als inspiratiebron voor mijn persoonlijke reflectie op het lezen van Klougarts boek: https://woordjes.wordpress.com/2018/0...

[Bilge. Akyar · Rating 4 out of 5]

"çünkü sen, ailenin haberi olmadan, senin de haberin olmadan başka biri olmuşsundur artık."

[Helena (Renchi King) · Rating 2 out of 5]

Kakav promašaj za mene! Nikako ne volim ovaj stil pisanja.Čini mi se kao sebičan stil.Kao da je spisateljica skupila neke svoje apstraktne misli (koje je ležerno zapisivala po raznim marginama novina,salvetama,bilo gdje...) i od toga sastavila roman koji samo ona razumije.Treba sto posto koncentracije da se shvati što je htjela reći.Zamorno. Preskočiti bez grižnje savjesti!

[Mehmet · Rating 5 out of 5]

Melankoli biraz sıkıcıdır, uzun uzun anlatılan bazı şeyler ve kendi dertlerini biteviye anlatan insanlar daha da sıkıcıdır. Fakat bu kitap öyle değil. Keder var, hüzün var, müthiş güzel tespitler var. Dağınık bir anlatıma rağmen okurken hiç yorulmadım.

Ölüm, aşk, ayrılık, ihanet, sevgi, kar, insan bedeni, eski nesnelwr, anneler, kadınlar, erkekler üzerine her şey var.

İyi ki okudum. Cümleler, öyle cümleler var ki bir sobanın sıcaklığı gibi içe işliyor, öyle cümleler var ki okuyunca üşüyorsunuz. Josefine Hanım, biraz da kuzeyli bir Şule Gürbüz gibi yazıyor. Fazla bilgi vermiyor ama biz bu cümleleri yazan kadının zihninde gezinirken yeni şeyler öğreniyoruz.

Hangi cümleyi alıp buraya yazmak gerektiğine bir türlü karar veremedim, belki kenarda beni bekleyen şu cümle kimi şeyleri açıklamaya yarar:

"Başa çıkılamayacak bir düzene gösterilen tevazu."

[Meade · Rating 4 out of 5]

On a recent trip to Denmark, I had the opportunity to become acquainted with this author - not knowing at the time that she was an author. Once I found out, I rushed to buy her book on my kindle to enjoy while I was traveling there. This is marked as a novel but is more of a prose poem - gorgeous language that takes a while to read because it must be absorbed more than read. It is not a quick or easy read, and the perspectives shift and can lead to confusion, but it feels as though being off-balance is part of the requirement for appreciating this work. Thank you, Josefine!

[Banu Yıldıran Genç · Rating 3 out of 5]

benim için fazla lirik bir roman. ölümler, evsizlik ve hatıralar... kendisini başkası için terk etmiş, ölü bir koca ve kanser olan anne arasında bir kendiyle hesaplaşma anlatısı.
ama ı ıh benin harcım değil :/

[Kim · Rating 5 out of 5]

https://winterlief.blogspot.nl/2018/0...

[Antonomasia · Rating 5 out of 5]

[4.5] A stunning prose poem of a novel from Denmark, intoxicating and cosy. Verbal mulled wine. Its most powerful paragraphs are evocations of the countryside around the narrator’s parents’ home; whilst it deals in all seasons, the winters are most memorable, chiming with the mood of the book itself, which almost demands to be read curled up. I found it always made more sense that way, lying in a ball, rather than seated more upright and ‘sensibly’.

One of Us Is Sleeping has the cocooned intimacy of Björk's Vespertine, but it's in a very different place emotionally from that album about the wonder of being reciprocally in love. Wrapped up in its blanket, it tells of going through the wringer, in ways reminiscent of Elizabeth Smart’s By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept, and occasionally the 2013 Pulitzer-winning poetry collection Stag's Leap by Sharon Olds. These works take broken relationships as their centre, and they begin and continue in medias res, so a little background - here provided by the blurb - orientates the reader to the events underlying scenes which move back and forth across time. The woman, probably in her mid-twenties (ages and durations don't always add up), has endured two significant breakups in a short space of time, first from a partner she had been with since the age of 18, then from a rebound man. Now her mother has been diagnosed with cancer, so she has come to stay in her parents’ home. Young, and having difficulty comprehending so much actual and potential loss, she retreats into memories and daydreams of the relationships with her exes, and at times a voice of almost childlike simplicity which inhabits that half-subconscious space of uninhibited, unlocked emotional expression common to poetry and psychotherapy, whose words the workaday world may find melodramatic. Numerous images of red apples evoke fairytales or Eve, and the loss of a past idyll. There is ample respite from her heart-mangling circumstances in the frequent and extraordinary descriptions of nature, which are perhaps the strongest reason to read this book - and besides, Klougart generates remarkable metaphors with a frequency that suggests comparisons like 'production line' or 'machine', yet that's quite unsuited because their singular artistry is beautifully hand-made.

I was physically entwined with the book, yet I found I wasn't reading to identify with the narrator; most of the time I felt like an empathic listener. I caught the mood although not the letter of the experience. To a reader older than the narrator, some of her realisations about romantic relationships may seem like mere stages of development rather than epiphanies for the ages, but that’s fine for where she is, and before long there is more startling writing to keep the book rolling along. With the shameless honesty of ‘emotional truth’, she describes the (live, healthy) partner who left her, and whom she takes years to get over, as “the dead man”: I understood and have felt the place of shock and absolute loss this unsayable comes from, even though I could never envisage saying it myself. It’s the most primitive, profound, early-developmental level of emotion - the non-verbal verbalised, and that takes skill and guts to access when you know that many other words. (If I was trying to communicate similar in 'literary' style, the person would be one among a pantheon of pedestalised Classical idols in varying stages of power, upkeep and decay – which, for all that this is true to myself, as her phrase is hers, feels sterile and overelaborate by comparison, and altogether less punch-in-the-gut powerful.)

Serious novels in which middle-class writer-narrators lead materially comfortable lives rub some readers up to wrong way - and, cliche as they are among literary fiction, they have to earn their worth by being exceptional in some other way, as Klougart does with her prose-poetry. This talented young woman in her rural setting, emotionally wrenched and wrenching whilst also safe; to understand her within this apparently semi-autobiographical narrative was like first hearing of Laura Marling or Ellie Goulding around the start of this decade. But security can be intriguing if its less-remarked nuances are highlighted: I marvelled with furrowed brow at how close this family must be, regardless of allusion to the odd past row: parent and adult child would huddle up together on a sofa. This remained foreign to me at the same time as I felt like I’d understood a little more about other people. Their closeness also made me less concerned for the narrator: regardless of her darkest moods, I couldn’t but help bring Bowlby into it and conclude that she seemed quite securely attached and thus likely, ultimately, to weather her storms.

Some of the more "relatable" passages turn out to be detailed descriptions of mundane household activities. I’ve encountered countless dull kitchen scenes in middlebrow family saga novels, but nothing that captured at a mesmerisingly granular level the feeling of everyday processes and the thoughts accompanying them, especially within novels. Such things sometimes appear in brittle short stories, where I'm less fond of them, but their context within a longer book gives a strange depth and intimacy: suddenly the narrative has gone slo-mo. (Knausgaard may be full of things like this too, but I’ve only read bits and pieces of his books. Plus a couple of thousand articles.)

So small, yet so large:
My mother pulls a tea bag out of the pot. She presses the last drops of liquid from it, on the edge of her plate, then lifts it across the table with a hand underneath to protect the tablecloth; her hand is a shadow on a lawn, beneath a sky, faithfully following along over the landscape. She nudges a piece of gingerbread cake to the side of her plate so it doesn’t get wet.

Josefine Klougart is critically feted in Scandinavia, the first Danish author ever to have two of her first three books nominated for the Nordic Council Literature Prize, and has been compared to Joan Didion, Anne Carson, and Virginia Woolf. (From this book's 'About the Author'.) Some other Goodreads reviews hint that she is the highly literary sort of author about whom sections of the public do not share the newspapers’ opinions - yet because she is talked about so much in her home region, people who wouldn’t usually go for this type of book were read it anyway. I put Danish and Swedish Goodreads reviews into Google Translate, and amongst the inevitable jokes about falling asleep, there were useful comments from several 3-stars, saying the writing was beautiful but readers didn't quite follow what was going on. One sentence, quoted in its machine translation, sums it up from a usefully neutral standpoint: "The language is captivating from the first to the last page, but probably not for those who want a clear chronology and plot." That seems fair: I loved the book for its language, and felt that its dreamlike structure was mostly a good match for the material. Though I would have liked a little more about the narrator’s present with her family, and marginally less about the past relationships. In the absence of an official Goodreads 4.5 star rating, I keep wavering over whether to round this up to 5 or down to 4. Four because in the second half, the ratio of quotidian relationship memories to arresting metaphors and nature scenes is higher, and occasionally the plaintive reminiscences get repetitive. Yet much of the other writing is superlative and its presence deserves that 5.

A minor – although, it seems, much talked-about – strand of criticism of Klougart in Danish is connected to her being part of the country’s currently female-dominated literary-fiction scene. I first heard about this via an article in Words Without Borders, and dug up further details with the help of Google Translate. I've enjoyed works by other contemporary Danish women writers, especially Dorthe Nors, and Naja-Marie Aidt's short story collection (not so much her novel), but as another Brit long-bored of hearing about Ian McEwan, I appreciate that literary scenes look tediously samey if you find the critics' favourites unexciting. Expat Danish literature academic Mette Høeg [in case you don't watch much Danish TV drama, Mette is a female name] said, in slightly tidied-up machine-translation, “Klougart’s works manage through form to reorient sensational [sensory?] expression and linguistically simulated hazard to divert attention from their harmless content of women's magazine themes and banal memories of childhood, parents and exes.” Given that it's such an embattled feminist taboo these days to say one can have enough of 'girly culture', I wouldn't mind siding with her - but those maintaining such opinions in the current climate inevitably tend to the contrarian and individualist rather than to unconditional sisterhood, and I think there's more to this book. Her comparison of unspecified writers to "navel-gazing...pampered, spoilt teenagers" (as per this article commenting on the controversy) would hold more water with Anglo-Americans on the lookout for privilege in contemporary literature. The Danish debate could flag the book as part of an interesting subgenre which is not new, but newly given critical notice here: a synthesis of experimental writing and chick lit. [Thanks to Blair for the article.] Some of the work of Dorthe Nors, especially the novella Minna Needs Rehearsal Space, is a perfect fit for it. Klougart, though, would be far towards the most avant-garde and emotionally serious end of the spectrum. The occasional scene is reminiscent of more commercial fiction - e.g. the crouching on a bathroom floor just after a breakup was rather like the beginning of Eat, Pray, Love - but by and large, the commonality between this book and chick lit is merely the focus on a young, healthy (though somewhat depressed) and comfortably middle-class white woman dealing with breakups. In topic and character, not unlike plenty of semi-autobiographical work by respected older male and female literary authors of the twentieth century. Its linguistic creativity places it in a tradition of experimental and poetic writing by authors from similar backgrounds of whatever gender, some of whom have always taken personal themes as the starting point for their artistry.

Authors have always written about personal topics, but I feel that the current turn towards the introspective, like the primacy of identity politics, is because - at least from the UK perspective - it seems more difficult for ordinary people to influence government policy than it did a few decades ago - foreign relations and their entanglement with migration, wars and terrorism, post-crash austerity and its hardships, climate change, superbugs, new futurist worries like robots taking over jobs... Many people feel powerless when they think about all that. But they might be able to change or understand themselves for the better, or induce centrists to talk more sensitively about minority groups. Sometimes, especially if the threat isn't immediate, it's easier with your head in the sand. This book is emotionally post-lapsarian for its narrator, but it's economically pre-lapsarian. Minus a couple of gadgets and medical treatments, it could be happening almost any time in the last 50 years. Especially 10+ years ago when young literary authors could still live off their novels. Comfortingly insulated and "timeless". (Thanks to this old post from the perenially excellent blog Pechorin's Journal, which I stumbled on this morning. A slightly different view on this topic, but it unstuck me from a fortnight's stasis with this review.)

One of Us Is Sleeping fulfilled my foreigner's skewed sense of hygge, more solitary than the Danes' original cultural concept which makes the social an integral part of a cosy glow. (I'd always been looking for a word so close to what it means, that I adopted hygge anyway.) One of Us Is Sleeping, as a story of loss and nature, might appeal not only to those who like introspective, poetic works about relationships, but to the more abstract/experimental-inclined readers of H is for Hawk and similar. Novels like this one - and other great contemporary European writers I've discovered recently - spoil me for those British books though, which lack the stylistic fireworks and elegantly reeling word-drunkenness of Klougart's, or of Andrezj Stasiuk's, passages of nature-writing. One of Us Is Sleeping contains some of the best writing of the nearly 50 books I've read so far in 2016.

[See below in the status updates for a silly number of quotes.]


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This is only the second or third time I've posted an image in a review. I'd like to comment on two cover designs for One of Us Is Sleeping.



I strongly prefer the one on the left (1), which is also the first one I saw, and which is on the e-ARC. Even in the unlikely event that the following comments were taken into account, it may be a bit late, as the design on the right (2) has now appeared on Amazon listings. Design 1, in its pattern that is cracking ice and/or bare tree branches, captures the two main features of the book, nature and the narrator’s fragile emotional state. Both are bleak in the present, but with the implicit future of unfreezing and spring regrowth. The handwriting shows the youthful, personal openness of the book and a sense of ultimate okay-ness. It is so very much more approachable and cravable than design 2, which is to me offputting, daunting, a book I simply can’t imagine longing to read as I did with this for a few weeks before I was lucky to get my mitts on the ARC. Something much more harrowing than the lovely contents of the extracts must be lurking within. The figure’s crouched posture is the same as that used in stock photos illustrating news stories about child abuse, and its dark colouring and overall style remind me more specifically of the cover of former Beirut hostage Brian Keenan’s memoir An Evil Cradling, a fixture in UK bookshops for years. The disintegrating limbs on top of those evocations suggest something else to endure on top of abuse. Paralysis? Or is it just the fragmented nature of the narrative? It might be a good cover, though, for A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing.
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Thank you to Edelweiss and to the publisher, Open Letter books, from whom I received this advance copy in exchange for an honest review. I requested this ARC because I loved the extracts in Asymptote and Brooklyn Rail (linked above in the 'recommended by' field).

[Carolina Paiva · Rating 5 out of 5]

My favourite book of 2018 so far.

[jeremy · Rating 4 out of 5]

we know so very little; so little that what we think to be knowledge is hardly worth reckoning with at all; instead we ought to settle for being pleasantly surprised if, on the edge of things, against all expectations, our assumption should be disproved.

if it turns out we know just a fragment of the world.

constant motion, collapsing buildings and meticulous work in stone. the unfamiliar as a wall we must forever scrabble to remove in order to find our humanity there and perhaps even love someone.

the first of josefine klougart's award-winning novels to be translated into english, one of us is sleeping (én af os sover) is a dolorous, yet beautifully composed work of failed love, loss, and lament. the star of klougart's book is her gorgeous, evocative imagery and emotional acuity. with grief aplenty — mourning the fated end of a romantic relationship, as well as her ill mother — the danish author's sorrowful narrator is ever-conflicted, trying as she does to move beyond what's been, despite being eternally bound to it.

the past does not come creeping in the form of images, it's there all the time, tugging at your sleeve, trailing along behind you, occasionally wanting to be lifted up and carried.

the uncertainty, instability, doubt, regret, and longing that so often follow a failed relationship are richly and realistically conveyed. klougart's narrator's emotional turmoil (punctuated, staccato) are quite nearly palpable and viscerally received. one of us is sleeping, as much a series of thematically linked poetic offerings as a novel proper, is graceful and unforgettable. as klougart's narrator strives for clarity, understanding, and consolation, she's left, as the rest of us undoubtedly are, to make sense of her own perceptions and boldly reassemble for herself the pieces of her shattered, shattering heart.

how naïve i've been, i think to myself. or rather: how lonely. how closely i scrutinized, how clearly i saw it all in my mind—all that nearly was. the person who could love, almost; this almost-love, forever postponed, something else in its place. what, exactly. reality. whatever that is. yours, i suppose.

*translated from the danish by martin aitken (dorthe nors, peter høeg, jussi adler-olsen, et al.)

[Jai Lau · Rating 1 out of 5]

The writer seems to throw as many literary devices as she can at the wall and see what sticks. Of course, as with many things, less is sometimes more. She makes the entire book incredibly hard work for the reader, foregoing direct speech and referring to characters simply as pronouns without a referent. She neglects to make anything about the narrative interesting enough to encourage the reader put in the amount of work required to follow it. Throw in the fact that each sentence is dripping in absolute misery, even mundane events such as getting a coffee, moving house or dropping a plate are relayed to the reader with such weight that it becomes a thoroughly joyless experience.

[Michael · Rating 1 out of 5]

Bogens sidste sætning er "[...] jeg hørte hende ikke, jeg var allerede faldet i søvn". Inden jeg nåede dertil, var jeg også allerede faldet i søvn - masser af gange endda.

[Merve · Rating 4 out of 5]

Kitaplarda belirli bir sürükleyicilik ve akıcılık, olayların içinde kaybolma ihtiyacı duyanlar için sıkıcı gelebilecek bir kitap. Ama edebi lezzet arayanlar, kelimeler arasında eriyip gitmek isteyenler için ideal bir kitap. Taş gibi oturan bir hikaye. Mideye sağlam bir yumruk yemiş hissi veriyor. Keder hüzün ve bol düşünce girdapları var. Dikkat ve duygusal dayanıklılık talep eden bir anlatısı var.

[jessica]

Going into my second week of trying to read this and have finally decided to put it down for now. The writing is beautifully introspective, the atmosphere sombre and the landscape dark and crisp; everything I usually love in a novel. I am just not in the right headspace for this type of book right now. Have returned it to my shelves to try again in the future!

[Clara · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ovo je knjiga za one koji u njima ne traže radnju. Vrsnost izraza je izvansvemirska. Poetičnost, težina, emocija. Svaka rečenica je pomno ispleteno savršenstvo. For the record, ovo remek djelo je napisala dvadesetsedmogodišnjakinja! Brzo ću zaboraviti o čemu se u knjizi radilo, ali dugo ću pamtiti kako je dobra bila.

[Barrita · Rating 2 out of 5]

Tiene partes muy bonitas pero en general parece que no pasa nada, nada, nada.

[Viktor Johansson · Rating 3 out of 5]

Veldig vakkert skrevet om kjærlighet, og det å være usikker i livet. En nokså abstrakt bok som krever sitt av leseren.

[Daniel Oster · Rating 2 out of 5]

beautiful prose... but I couldn't get into it and wouldn't be able to tell you what it's really about