Nordic Visions: The Best of Nordic Speculative Fiction

 

Nordic Visions 

The Best of Nordic Speculative Fiction

Edited by Margrét Helgadóttir 

The Green Man of Eshwood Hall by Jacob Kerr

 

The Green Man of Eshwood Hall

by Jacob Kerr

American Trolls: "The Changeling" by Victor LaValle

The Changeling by Victor LaValle

A Review

Flash review : “Bottled Goods” by Sophie van Llewyn

“Bottled Goods” by Sophie van Llewyn

Bottled Goods has just been longlisted for the 2019 Women’s Prize for Fiction, after having previously been longlisted for the Republic of Consciousness Prize 2019 and nominated for the People’s Book Prize.   Here’s a brief review I had written when I read this “novel-in-flash” last year…

When Liviu's brother defects to the West, he and his wife Alina are hounded by the Romanian Communist authorities. We are in the 1970s, at the height of the Cold War, and not even well-connected Aunt Theresa, who practices the forbidden old folk ways even whilst her son works for the regime, can save Alina and Liviu from the unwelcome attentions of the Secret Police. The constant danger blights a relationship which could, and should, have been a special one.

 
Totalitarian rule casts a shadow on the history of the last century. Bottled Goods is neither the first nor the last novel to be inspired by the horrors of authoritarian governments. What distinguishes this novel from many others is its stylistic and narrative approach. 

It is, first of all, a "novel-in-flash" - written in the form of short interrelated vignettes which can, and in some cases have, been published as standalone pieces. Moreover, the narrative sometimes wanders into the territory of magical realism. These flights of whimsy give the novel a light touch, even whilst it's presenting us with the terror of a communist regime and its tragic impact on ordinary lives. The novel is permeated with a sense of fear and dread, yet the pill is sweetened by the fairytale narrative.

This is an original début from a distinctive literary voice.

Paperback, 176 pages

Published July 11th 2018 by Fairlight Books

http://www.fairlightbooks.co.uk/bottled-goods/

Bad Education? Vita Nostra by Marina and Sergey Dyachenko

Vita Nostra 

By Marina & Sergey Dyachenko(Translated by Julia Meitov Hersey)

A baffled review

Vita Nostra was first published in Ukraine in 2007, in the original Russian. After garnering prizes and a cult following, this novel by Marina and Sergey Dyachenko is now being published by HarperCollins in an English translation by Julia Meitov Hersey. It has been compared to «The Magicians» by Lev Grossman, who has claimed that Vita Nostra «has become a powerful influence» on his own writing.  A Goodreads reviewer describes it as «Harry Potter, were it written by Lev Tolstoy».  It’s a helpful analogy, but one which does not really prepare you for the novel’s enthralling weirdness.

It starts out like a slice of post-Soviet realism, with Sasha Samokhina, the 16-year old protagonist, vacationing at a rather sordid resort with her (single) mother.  Sasha notices that she is being stalked by a stranger, whom she cannot avoid, however hard she tries.  Things soon take a turn for the bizarre.  When Sasha finally speaks to the stranger, he sets her awkward challenges which border on the abusive, and test her physical and psychological endurance to the limit.  The price for failing is high – one near-miss brings about nearly fatal consequences for the persons closest to Sasha.  It turns out all these rather disturbing goings-on are a prelude to Sasha being called to join the mysterious «Institute of Special Technologies».   Potterheads will be disappointed to learn that this is no Russian Hogwarts.  It is situated in the nondescript provincial town of Torpa; its more advanced students seem deranged or crippled; its lecturers are threatening; its curriculum, and particularly the dreaded «Specialty» lecture, seems maddeningly – and pointlessly - difficult.  And there’s a clear sense that failure is simply not an option.  Throughout the novel, Sasha considers not entering the Institute and, eventually, escaping from there.  But can she ever bring herself to do that when it would put her life and her family in mortal danger?  The atmosphere of dread never lifts – and it is accentuated by the fact that for most of the book, neither Sasha nor the readers are really aware what the course is all about, what its aims are and what it will all lead to.  Like the protagonist, we are kept in the dark and slowly discover (part of ) the truth with her.  

These gradual revelations makes Vita Nostra eminently readable, despite the fact that its plot is not really spectacular and often built on abstruse concepts.  At one level, it can be enjoyed as a coming-of-age or college novel, one in which Sasha Samokhina experiences love and grows into an independent adult. At the same time, the fantastical elements give it an added dimension, making us wonder what the heck is going on at the Institute.   By the end of the book, we notice that the novel has prodded us into considering weighty philosophical concepts, such as fate and free will – do we really have choices, or are these set by others, or by our own fears and limitations?  

This was one of the most mind-boggling, unusual and memorable books read this year – and the one with the most gorgeous cover.  If I chop off a couple of stars from my rating it is because I found the language used rather awkward – I can’t say whether it’s the translation or a quirk of the original, but I felt that the shifts from colloquial to a more high-flying style were clunky and unconvincing.  But this is, ultimately, a novel one reads for its baffling ideas – I recommend it precisely for being so strange.

***

The best soundtrack to the novel would most probably be a playlist of post-Soviet rock or dance.  But that would be well outside by comfort zone.  So what I will offer you first is a recording of Gaudeamus Igitur, the medieval student song whose lyrics inspire the novel’s title.

It’s such a well-known tune that it has often been adapted by later composers and musicians.   Brahms quotes it in his Academic Festival Overture, composed in 1880 on the occasion of his receiving an honorary doctorate from the University of Breslau (now Wrocław).  The school’s dignitaries expected a solemn, celebratory work – what they got instead was a potpourri of student driking songs, ending with Gaudeamus Igitur:

Here’s Liszt’s take on the same theme, in a version for piano duet:

To end, a Russian composer for a Russian-language novel: Tchaikovsky’s arrangement for chorus and piano.  In Russian.

Village Green Preservation Society : A tale of two novels

Village Green Preservation Society

Today’s blogpost brings together my reviews of two very different novels.  One is a whimsical fantasy story featuring antropomorphic bears, written by an author best known for her tales of Gothic horror.   The other is a medieval mystery told in reverse.  Why these two novels are inextricably linked in my mind is anybody’s guess (including mine...).  It possibly has to do with the fact that both are set in isolated villages whose boundaries are set by a river.  Or that both portray society’s where fear of the outside(r) holds sway.  What the two novels surely have in common is that they are well-written and strangely memorable. It’s some time since I read them, and yet, at the most unexpected moments, I find myself revisiting these lost villages...

  

Oothangbart – A Subversive Fable for Adults and Bears

by Rebecca Lloyd

Oothangbart is a strange place. It is somewhat reminiscent of an ancient English village or market town, except that it lies in splendid isolation, surrounded by a river (“long may its waters encircle us!”), its frontiers further confirmed by a frightening forest and a gate at one end to stop the more intrepid amongst the villagers from exploring further. The only link with the outside world is the flotsam and debris occasionally washed up by the river, hinting at the existence of other settlements which the villagers have never seen and which might not even exist. The legendary “Bristol”, for example. 

Within Oothangbart, life is regimented and regimental. Time, in particular, is considered precious and Oothangbart’s inhabitants are obliged to make use of it as the elders dictate. There is also a strict hierarchy, with the Mayor heading a select coterie of officials who make it clear that they rule the roost. Life is designed to be predictable, safe and reassuring – and in such a world, thought and imagination are dangerous.

Most of the citizens are happy to play by the rules, others less so. Take Hutchinson, for instance, who makes it a point to come across as an eccentric loner. Or the novel’s protagonist, one Donal Shaun Hercule Poseidon. Donal sincerely tries to fit in, diligently carrying out his unfulfilling chores at the Department of Found Objects. However, he cannot help dreaming of a different life, and wondering whether the citizens of the outside world (supposing that they exist) have it better. These are dangerous, treasonous thoughts which Donal expresses only in the presence of the closest of friends. Love might have something to do with Donal’s romantic trait. For a long time he has admired Pearl Offering, owner of the village bakery, but he has always been too shy to make the first step. A love letter baring his soul remains, day after day, unsent. 

But things might soon change. Fish have been jumping out of the river and Oothangbart is in turmoil. Donal, who is one of the witnesses of this frightening phenomenon, is catapulted into officialdom and, during a state of emergency, persons who think differently might win the day.

Rebecca Lloyd is best known as an author of dark fiction, with two of her short story collections published by contemporary horror and weird fiction specialists, Tartarus Press. In Oothangbart, however, she opts for a gentler sort of fantasy, a “fable”, as the subtitle itself implies. Oothangbart reiterates what is quite a common literary (and movie) trope, the idea of a “dystopian utopia”, a seemingly perfect community where safety is achieved at the expense of freedom and imagination. What distinguishes this book from others of the sort is its delightful “oddness”. There is quirkiness in the world-building – little touches such as the “Escalator” which the dignitaries of the community ride just to show their importance, or the kite-flying competitions during which the villagers are, albeit briefly, allowed a measure of freedom. There is quirkiness in the characters and in the way they are portrayed, even physically – indeed, it might not be immediately obvious but the inhabitants fo Oothangbart are, in reality, antropomorphic bears. These fantastic elements emphasize the “fable-like” character of the title, which is further conveyed through the imaginative use of archaic-sounding language and expressions which, however, have nothing to do with old English. Thus, all males are “fellows”, females “sweetfellows”, the postman is the “Postal Fellow”. The different times of day have strange names such as “newtime”, “whittletime” or “fishthoughts”. The villagers greet each other with curious sayings – “long may our flags flutter in kindly winds! Long may sweet clouds drift!” Often the main characters indulge in philosophical discussions, hinting at the pressing social concerns underlying this seemingly innocuous fantastic tale.

 
Indeed, the author’s real aims are not far to seek. As Lloyd’s afterword confirms, “Oothangbart” is a satire poking fun at (and occasionally savagely attacking) contemporary society and, particularly, common workplace mores. We live indeed in a context where conformity and productivity are the order of the day and where original thought and imagination are therefore considered “dangerous”. As in Oothangbart’s absurdly inconclusive committee meetings, “group activities” are sometimes merely an excuse in fuelling the self-importance of supposed leaders. I’d like to believe that this is not as pervasive a problem as the author makes it out to be and that there is a place in our world for diverse “fellows” and “sweetfellows” like Donal. But as the characters in the novel ask at one point, what is belief? Is it merely a “hope” to help us get through life? A subversive fable it certainly is... 

Published September 25th 2016 by Pillar international Publishing

The Western Wind

by Samantha Harvey

The Year of Our Lord, 1491. The hundred-or-so villagers of Oakham, in rural Somerset, are celebrating the raucous days of Carnival. This year, however, a tragic occurrence has cast a pall over the revelry. Thomas Newman has disappeared, likely carried away by the churning waters of the river which cuts of the village from the rest of the world. Newman was a relative newcomer to Oakham, having settled there upon the death of his wife and daughter. However, thanks to his financial clout, he acquired much of the surrounding land, meaning that most of the villagers depend upon him for their living. Moreover, despite his unorthodox ideas, he is considered a person bearing moral authority. His sudden death – whether through accident, murder or suicide – can only bring bad tidings to Oakham. Especially since the rural dean has descended on the village to investigate, and there are rumblings of monks setting their sights on Oakham’s fields.

Reading a skeletal outline of the plot, you’d be forgiven for expecting “The Western Wind” to be another “medieval crime novel”. But this is so much more than a “cozy historical mystery”. It is narrated by the village priest, John Reve, who as the repository of Oakham’s secrets, is the closest we get to a detective figure. Interestingly, Reve reveals more about himself than about the villagers – indeed, on one level, this novel could be read as a book-length character study of Reve. He comes across as a person with a mission, one who considers himself as chosen by God, but is torn by feelings of inadequacy. It seems that he is being continuously being weighed (including in a literal sense) and found wanting – whether by his flock, by his ecclesiastical superiors or by God himself. The 'western wind' becomes the metaphor for the deliverance for which Reve prays, to no avail.

A particular characteristic of the novel is the narrative timeline which, in a structure worthy of a Christopher Nolan movie, moves backwards from Shrove Tuesday to the Saturday before. It is a deliberately confusing ploy which leaves the reader feeling thrown into the deep end, much like Newman’s fatal dive into the river. But it’s a brilliant move – as it effectively evokes the feeling of loss and incomprehension shared by the villagers of Oakham.

Early readers praised the novel’s historical accuracy. I do not have enough knowledge of the period to comment about this. However, I did find some aspects of the novel unconvincing. What disturbed me most is the fact that Reve, who otherwise comes across as quite a decent and dedicated priest, displays an uncharacteristically cavalier attitude towards the secret of confession. By the time the events in the novel take place, the gravity of a breach of the “seal of confession” had been established for centuries, with severe canonical and spiritual consequences for whoever went against this strict rule. Yet, Reve lightly discusses penitents’ confessions with his superiors without any feeling of compunction or fear of worldly or otherworldly punishment.

Another slightly puzzling point is that, apart from the “confessions” which are central to the plot, and apart from his ruminations about whether he is a “good enough” shepherd of the Oakham flock, Reve rarely seems to discuss theology, or religious rites, rituals and prayers. Indeed, despite the narrator being a priest and in spite of the fact that the novel touches upon subjects such as faith and superstition, I wouldn’t classify this as a “religious” novel, and it does not delve into the type of theological discourse you will find in novels such as The Diary of a Country Priest, Gilead or, for that matter, the more recent Fire Sermon.

Then again, the feeling I got was that the primary concern of the novel is neither religious nor historical. What the Western Wind gives us instead is a complete immersion into the world conjured by the author. The novel creates an almost physical sense of oppression, of damp, of fetid air; of a sense of poverty and sickness; of helplessness in the face of impending catastrophic change. What counts at the end of the day is not strict historical accuracy - just as the narrative style sounds convincingly “archaic”, without necessarily accurately mimicking 15th century parlance, the novel definitely delivers a sense of “authenticity”.

Hardcover, 304 pages

Published March 1st 2018 by Jonathan Cape