Swanfolk

Award winning Icelandic author Kristín Ómarsdóttir and immaculate translator Vala Thorodds have created a novel that’s at once fluid, poem-like in it’s prose; playfully philosophical and self-referential in it’s recurring examination of language and meaning; startling absurd in it’s characters and violence; and then a bit lackluster in it’s story arc. I’m usually keen on a story without a grand plot line, happy to join the writer at the telescope, taking in a particular view; but in this case I felt a bit mislead. We jump straight into a new country, in a different time, with our main character - Elisabet - whose a spy for the government’s special unit.

There are many interesting quirks our main character has - like an imaginary sister, underlying grief for her absent parents, a second identity and coded language she only uses around two colleagues, and a dog who never seems to need feeding or looking after. Unfortunately, these are just props I’d have loved to have found out more about. Elisabet meets the Swanfolk early on (a group of humans on the top half, swans on bottom half), and continues to go and meet them throughout the book - her curiosity outweighing the fact that she never comes away unharmed. As the narrator, her version of events becomes twistingly untrustworthy, the more she’s physically violated. Meanwhile two of her colleagues are having an affair, and she’s trying to write a report about stand-up comedy. Whilst there is a feeling of gearing up to a climatic ending (or at least, some explanation), I felt a bit let down at the end. I know it was crafted this way on purpose, but either way I wasn’t sad it was over.

A book that isn’t about anything never disappoints you. Books that search for a conclusion and closure are at risk of disappointing their readers. Conclusions dampen the impulse to innovate and to imagine.

Content Warning: Rape, violence