This book was fucking perfect.
sjdgiksdhuhgsfd I. just.
I don't know how to even write this.
I found this in the English Bookshop in Södermalm, in a "Swedish Literature" section. I judged the cover, as I am unfortunately wont to do -- but I mean, what would you think about a book titled The Other Woman with that cover design? Thank god -- in the interest of finding some 'real Swedish lit' while in Sweden -- I read the back. And, you'll understand, I changed my mind.
And I've been disillusioned with my not-so-secret favourite trope, of late -- younger girl and older guy -- because it never gets pulled off quite right. The power dynamic is off; it seems forced or flippant; it ignores the complexity and darkness inherent to the whole situation.
The Other Woman doesn't do any of that. It hits every cross-generational note like a spire -- sharp, undeniably present, but slender and subtle. It hits every note it attempts like a fucking spire: the angst of the late 20s. Female friendship. The mutability of relationships. Class difference, the value of education, nostalgia. Family constraints, modern constraints. Independence & difference. Possibility and goals; whether they are achievable. The problematic layers of feminism. What it really means to be honest, or self-aware, or genuine.
And most of all: the confused, spinning portrait of a confused, spinning girl.
Our nameless (I JUST REALIZED??? what the fuck what the fuck THAT'S HOW ENGROSSING THIS BOOK IS I only JUST REALIZED the protagonist never had a name) leading lady is a mess, but there were...too many times when I saw myself, word for word, in her. And parts of my closest friends. And parts of people I vaguely know. As she contradicts herself and rationalizes and tries to figure out what the fuck she wants, exactly, she resonates ------
deeply.
And her story, in barely 200 pages, shows -- does not tell -- more than I honestly thought was possible. Some books hit one note way too hard; some try to do too much -- rare is the book that artfully pulls all its topics together, gently, and leaves most of them up to the reader to pursue, in themselves.
I am in love with Stockholm, and this book is vibrantly what I am beginning to suspect is Swedish: rife, brilliant, steeped in history and tradition & cultural and class divides, sparse but seething, absolutely seething, with truth and the kind of sublime beauty you feel when you see the Northern Lights.
Fuck.