Archive for Icelandic noir

a journal of the sargaço year

Posted in Books, Kids, Mountains, pictures, Travel, Wines with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 5, 2025 by xi'an

Read my pile of vacation books before the vacations were over! Apart from Choice, reviewed in a separate post, they were quite a disapointment. A Day of Fallen Night by Samantha Shannon (also bought in Seattle last year) is a sequel to the Priory of the Orange Tree that I read by Lac Saint-Jean, Québec (that I enjoyed enough to buy this one). A very poor sequel then, where I could find but little appeal in the story. There are too many similarities with the literature, plus inspiration from Earth cultures like the Vikings’ and Japan. The actions and reasonings of the main characters are at times disputable, incl. what they consider as their duties to the Realm or to their religion (eg. duty pregnancies). The hugely predictable romantic developments are taking for ever, while the overall scenario is weak and unrealistic (even conditional on the local universe). As in other poor fantasy novels, the characters travel huge distances at times of upheavals of a cosmic scale, can indulge in fancy meals while the society is collapsing, uncover super-powers at times of need, and meet at the perfect moment to save the day (of fallen night!). In addition, the cosmogony of the local universe is poorly constructed, with different creeds conflicting. A single redeeming if idiosyncratic factor is the skills of Dumai in ice climbing and mountaineering, where she lost a few fingers… The second book was a trilogy, La Dame de Reykjavik (the Hulda series) by Ragnar Jonasson, that I bought because of high praises, a fascination for Iceland and a well-made book. Quite disappointing, with a poor and unrealistic scenario, and unbelievable attitude of a senior inspector. The hints are heavy, the flashbacks unceasing, and the constant whining of the main character unbearable. No to mention the heavy infodumps about Iceland’s landscape and history. Another novel surfing (or attempting to) the Icelandic noir fad. The second and third novels are even worse, recycling the same story by moving backward and further backward in time. Hard to believe they received so many awards! The last one is Petites boîtes by Ogawa Yoko (小箱) whose earlier work I also enjoyed, but this one is a surrealist non-story about an alternative Japan where all kids died and parents honour them by maintaining memory boxes à la Joseph Cornell (who also inspired a character within Gibbson’s Neuromancer). The short book consists of the description of the fantastic life of the narrator’s small town, with no plot whatsoever. And no lasting impression.

Made a purée from one breadfruit, which grows extensively in Guadeloupe. A nice taste close to potatoes with a nuttier flavour. Also made lots of (local) tuna ceviche, ideal for cold meals, and mango purées, taking advantage of the mango tree in the garden of my daughter’s rental. Even brought back a frozen jar of the purée (along with the massive avocados that grow on the island and a few of the local bananas). Tasted a fantastic cassava crêpe, much crunchier than the buckwheat and tef galettes I am used to. (Meanwhile my attempt at growing buckwheat at home failed for the second time, despite constant irrigation…) And a bokit, a local taco with fried bread that is definitely not to be tried more than once for its fat and salt contents, if predictably enjoyable for the same reasons! And many versions of accras.

 

a journal of the plague year [more deconfined reviews]

Posted in Books, Kids, pictures with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 18, 2020 by xi'an

Took a copy of Room 10 by Åke Edwardson yet again on the book sharing shelves at Dauphine. And read it within a few days, with limited enthusiasm as the story proceeds quite sluggishly, every single clue is driven to its very end, e.g. detailing the examination of security recordings for pages!, the Swedish background is mostly missing, the personal stories of the policemen prove frankly boring, and the final explanations stand way beyond a mere suspension of belief. The book is back on the shelves.

Watched the beginning of the Salvation series and quickly gave up. Because I soon realised it had nothing to do with the Peter Hamilton’s trilogy. And because the story did not seem to get anywhere, despite the impending destruction of Earth by a massive asteroid, turning into an East versus West spy story. And because the scientific aspects and characters were plain ridiculous. And also because the secondary plot about whom should be saved in case of a destruction was quite distasteful in its primitive eugenism.

Read an Indriðason I had not yet read, Sons of dust [Synir duftsins], the first book he wrote, but ironically rather repetitive on the themes of missing fathers, child abuse, social consequences of the second World War allied occupation, found in the subsequent volumes. And a rather unconvincing plot, especially from a genetic engineering perspective. (The book is not currently available in English. I read it in French.)

Eventually came to watch There will be blood, the 2007 masterpiece by Paul Anderson, with Daniel Day-Lewis rendering so impressively the descent into madness of the oil tycoon and his thirst for absolute control, loosing his adopted son in the process. And unable to stop at exposing the duplicity of the preacher whom he fought the entire film. The ending is somewhat less impressive than the rest, maybe because all is finished, but it does not diminish the raw power of this tale. And the music track is perfect, with Brahms’ Violin Concerto as a leitmotiv. A journey into oily darkness…

Harðskafi [book re-review]

Posted in Books, Mountains, pictures, Travel with tags , , , , on December 24, 2016 by xi'an

Just finished re-reading Arnaldur Indriðason‘s Hypothermia (or Harðskafi in Icelandic, for a mountain in the Western fjords central to the series), which I deem the best novel in this series I have read so far. Even more than in the other novels, the crime aspect is peripheral to the story. And even more than in the other novels, the inner thoughts of the main character get exposed and analysed. The story is so well-conducted that it is unclear for most of it that Erlendur believes or not in the supernatural that seems so prevalent in Icelandic culture. The only fausse note is the meeting between Erlandur and his ex-wife, which sounds somewhat caricaturesque. But overall this is a great Icelandic novel.