Embroidery is not a good book. It ignores many of the qualities that we as writers are taught to value, to strive for in crafting a narrative that we might define as "compelling." It does not care for pacing, nor particularly about character, setting, or plot. Its descriptions are often comprehensive but rarely beautiful or memorable. Frequently we are introduced to details that quickly become extraneous; there is little in the way of an obvious theme. And yet, which you as a reader already know because of how I've written this, using details that will quickly become extraneous, that in the end I can't help but say that I very much enjoyed the experience of having read Embroidery. I will not say that I enjoyed the experience of reading it (at least not consistently), but for writers and those who care about writing itself, this is a wonderful exercise in how to diverge from the norm.
One could likely sum up Embroidery as "a deeply Scandinavian book." Palsdottir and her translator, Smith, have a fascinating power: to say not only much in few words, but little across many. Theirs is a story with strange priorities, cold and bleak like a long solstice night. Tragedy finds her without reason, karma punishes her attempts at redefinition, and for what? For the sake of reiterating the historical struggles of womanhood? To draw parallels between her and the legendary Gudrid, the explorer around whom her life comes to revolve? To make commentary on the struggles of otherness, especially for immigrants far from their homes? Whatever the case, Sigurlina, our protagonist, suffers greatly, whether for the sake of suffering of to convey to us some kind of meaning. Her life is a comedy of misfortune, frequently so ridiculous that I wondered, perhaps, if I was supposed to laugh. Ultimately, those with more knowledge on Iceland, its history, and its culture may be able to derive more from this speculation, but I think that for the rest of us, those who are unwilling to do research to simply read a novel, its true value lies elsewhere: technique.
Embroidery's linguistic concerns lie where most novels seldom tread, attempting, like Sigurlina, to carve new paths at questionable gains to itself. The most striking feature of the text is that despite being so centered on its characters, it has very little in the way of indented, quoted dialogue. Conversations occur almost entirely in summary, trapping us in a strange dissociation, with only the most emphatic lines snapping us from trance. Huge swathes of time will pass in a single sentence; moments can take more than a single page. Characters will appear spontaneously and feature heavily in Sigurlina's life with little context or pretense. Is this always successful? No, but while I still can't be sure where Rubinov appeared from on this string of miserable coincidences and could-be meet-cutes, these bizarre threads weave together into a remarkable approximation of the way that life often feels, much more so than any kind of nonfiction. Nonfiction is deeply concerned with meaning, a thing that Embroidery is not. As fiction, it is free from the consideration of the portrayals of its characters, of events, and of importance — of why one would bother to read it in the first place. It is riddled with brutal and pointless realism, full of anecdotes that editors would highlight for easy omission, and yet they weren't. Some of these might be a failing on an editor's part, but I would wager that most were not. They are part of the fabric that makes this story distinct. Although I would rarely call Embroidery "exciting," its approach to crafting a picture of an individual's life is nothing if not impressive. Even if I came away from it with a lingering sensation of "why?"
So, why? Why, if we can only read so many books in our life, read an on-the ground faux-memoir of an Icelandic stranger instead of Britney Spears' real life actual tell-all? Excellent question. The best answer I have for you is that Embroidery isn't so obtuse as to be inaccessible. Its straightforward prose demands little of its reader beyond an ability to keep names straight (I found that keeping a pronunciation guide on hand was not only helpful but both fun and informative), and it's fairly short as far as novels go (under 200 pages). That might sound like a dressed up way of saying, "I don't know, because you're literate?" In some ways, it is. I feel like I would find it hard to recommend to non-writers. Earlier, I said that I enjoyed the experience of "having read" it. This was intentional. I would find it hard to say that I enjoyed the sheer act of reading it. I did, however, feel as though I learned a lot, and whether or not I incorporate any of that that into my own practice, I feel as though I learned about possibility, about what a story from a place and name I have no connection to could be. For those who enjoy — or perhaps often find themselves — pulling meaning from the meaningless, Embroidery is a fascinating read. For those with other concerns, I'd suggest putting it back on the shelf.