ANIMAL FARM

Author: George Orwell
Year: 1962 (1945)
Publisher: Penguin Books
Language: English

Let’s not complicate things: “Animal Farm” is simple. It is by all standards a straightforward and easy novel to understand, with little to no hidden meaning or subtext to explore. George Orwell, its author, does not cloak his ideas in dense symbolism or ambiguous allegory; rather, he presents a transparent political fable whose parallels to historical events and figures are direct, intentional, and unmistakable. On the nose, one might even be tempted to say. Yet this accessibility is a defining feature of the text. Orwell’s purpose is not to invite endless interpretive speculation but to instruct, warn, and criticise through clarity. As a journalist, he wants to help you understand; not challenge you to dig through layer upon layer of obscure symbolism.

The novel recounts the rebellion of farm animals against their human owner, Mr. Jones, after they are inspired by the ideals of equality and collective ownership articulated by the aging hog Old Major. Following a successful uprising, the animals establish a new society based on shared labour and common benefit. However, a group of pigs gradually assume leadership roles, consolidating power over the other animals and altering the farm’s guiding principles to serve their own interests. Over time, the revolutionary ideals erode entirely, culminating in a regime that is indistinguishable from, and arguably worse than, the human tyranny it replaced. The simplicity of this plot mirrors the simplicity of the historical trajectory Orwell critiques: the rise, corruption, and betrayal of revolutionary movements.

The characters all correspond to historical persons or events.

Old Major, who represents Karl Marx, functions primarily as an ideological catalyst rather than an active participant in events. Like Marx, Major articulates a theoretical vision of liberation rooted in equality and collective struggle, but he does not live to see how his ideas are implemented, or indeed distorted. His speech lays out the moral foundation of the rebellion, yet its vagueness leaves ample room for manipulation. Orwell suggests that abstract theory, when detached from practical safeguards, is vulnerable to appropriation by those seeking power rather than justice.

Mr. Jones embodies negligent and decaying authority and is based on Tsar Nicholas II. He is neither competent nor particularly malicious; instead, his downfall results from indifference and failure to recognise the needs of those he governs. Orwell portrays Jones not as a uniquely evil ruler but as a dysfunctional one, whose removal seems inevitable.

Napoleon’s role as Joseph Stalin is one of the novel’s most overt parallels. Napoleon is defined by his brutality, secrecy, and obsession with control. He does not persuade through reason or charisma but rules through fear, violence, and the systematic elimination of rivals. Orwell’s portrayal emphasizes the transformation of revolutionary leadership into authoritarian dictatorship, underscoring how power, once centralised, tends to perpetuate itself regardless of ideological justification.

Moses, representing the Church, occupies a marginal yet symbolically important position. His tales of Sugarcandy Mountain provide comfort and distraction, offering spiritual consolation that discourages resistance. Orwell presents religion not as an active oppressor but as a tool tolerated or suppressed depending on its usefulness to those in power. In practice it serves to pacify suffering rather than alleviating it.

Mr. Frederick of Pinchfield, symbolising Nazi Germany, is characterised by aggression, deceit, and opportunism. His eventual betrayal of Napoleon highlights the fragility of alliances formed purely on convenience. In contrast, Mr. Pilkington of Foxwood, representing the British government, is portrayed as complacent, self-interested, and ultimately accommodating. Orwell suggests that external powers are less concerned with justice than with stability and self-preservation.

Boxer, the embodiment of the uneducated and naïve working class, is the novel’s most tragic figure. His unwavering loyalty, physical strength, and simplistic maxims, render him indispensable yet disposable. Orwell’s treatment of Boxer illustrates how exploitation thrives not only through cruelty but through misplaced trust and lack of critical awareness.

Squealer, the propagandist, is perhaps Orwell’s most scathing creation. He embodies the machinery of misinformation, manipulation, and rhetorical deceit that sustains tyranny. Squealer’s power lies not in strength or intelligence but in his frantic eagerness to serve authority. He is weak, subservient, and hysterically devoted to justifying every abuse committed by his masters. Orwell’s contempt for such figures is palpable. Mouthpieces like Squealer thrive not because they believe in truth, but because they crave proximity to power. Their worthlessness is masked by their utility, and their moral emptiness by their loud orations.

Snowball’s function as a representation of Leon Trotsky is one of “Animal Farm’s” most historically interesting parallels. Like Trotsky, Snowball is an intellectual architect of the revolution, distinguished by energy, eloquence, and a genuine commitment to improving collective life. Trotsky played a central role in the Bolshevik Revolution and later organised the Red Army. Similarly, Snowball is instrumental in defending Animal Farm and shaping its early policies. His emphasis on education, committees, and long-term planning reflects Trotsky’s belief in modernisation and ideological development.

The windmill project closely mirrors Trotsky’s advocacy of rapid industrialisation and technological progress. Snowball envisions a future in which labour is reduced and productivity increased, while Napoleon dismisses such ideas in favour of consolidating personal power. This ideological divide echoes Trotsky’s conflict with Stalin, whose rise depended less on visions than on control and violence.

In sum, “Animal Farm” achieves its enduring impact precisely because of its clarity. Orwell strips political catastrophe of complexity to reveal its recurring patterns, making the novel not a cryptic allegory but an unmistakable warning which rightfully occupies its unquestionable position in any Wester school curriculum. One may only hope, that the ears of future generations do not grow deaf to its message. Authoritarianism, after all, does not thrive among the wicked as much as among the ignorant.

Special shoutout to Paul Hogarth for the evocative cover art. 

HERTHA

Author: Fredrika Bremer
Year: 2020 (1856)
Publisher: Svenska Vitterhetssamfundet
Language: Swedish 

Anybody who has cared to ask, should know that I am not an undivided supporter of literary canon. No matter how you slice it, it will be exclusive and narrow, or if you make it more comprehensive, it is soon rendered meaningless. And yet, I hereby submit, contradictory as it may be, that every resident of Haninge municipality where Fredrika Bremer’s residence Årsta Castle is located, ought to read at least one of her works; and in particular her most famous one “Hertha” from 1856.

“Hertha” is often celebrated as a foundational text in the Swedish women’s rights movement. The story follows Hertha, a young woman trapped by her father’s authority and by laws that deny her legal independence, education, and meaningful work. Under the 1734 Civil Code, unmarried women in Sweden were treated as perpetual minors under the guardianship of male relatives, limiting their legal capacity to work, own property, or make decisions about their own lives. Unlike her peers, who are more concerned about getting married and avoiding scandals, Hertha finds it impossible to accept her fate. She demands change; not only for herself, but for all women in King Oskar I’s dual monarchy.

Beneath the most obvious romantic and dramatic narrative, “Hertha” is, however, a sophisticated political treatise*, only thinly disguised as fiction. Through her protagonist and key supporting characters such as Yngve and Rudolph, Bremer crafts a forceful critique of the social and legal structures that limited women’s autonomy in mid-19th century Sweden, while simultaneously offering a vision for reform that is both rational and morally sound.

A critical figure in amplifying this argument is Yngve whose role is central in demonstrating Bremer’s vision of a society in which men support women’s rights. Yngve is not portrayed as a revolutionary, nor as a mere romantic interest. He is a morally and intellectually engaged participant in the broader social debate. His respect for Hertha’s autonomy illustrates an essential point: men’s support of women’s rights is not a threat to their masculinity, authority, or social power. On the contrary, Yngve embodies the idea that enlightened men have a vested interest in promoting justice and equity. By affirming Hertha’s agency and moral insight, he models how a man can act as an ally without diminishing his own stature or influence.

What makes Hertha particularly convincing is her insistence on constructive change rather than simple rebellion. The way the societies in Sweden and other Nordic countries were transformed in the 20^th century by social reforms, contrasted many other at the time by their emphasis on peaceful and gradual transformation, rather than radical and violent revolutions (see review of “What is Social Democracy” from November 2025). Fredrika Bremer foreshadows that ambition in her writing and holds it up as a preferred vehicle for lasting change. Hertha’s struggle is framed not in terms of personal vengeance or overturning social order, but as a reasoned plea for structural reform. She challenges the legal guardianship system and the social expectation that women must remain dependent, but she does so through reflection, argumentation, and moral appeal rather than impulsive action. Explicitly so, as when presented with an offer to bring her father in front of a judge to force him to grant her autonomy, she refuses.

Bremer drives her point home early in the novel by introducing the character of Rudolph, Hertha’s distant relative. Contrary to Hertha’s, Rudolph’s actions are designed to liberate them from the oppressive father by force. Not only does the path of violence that Rudolph chooses fail to solve the problem, it moreover creates unimaginable destruction and, ultimately, his own defeat. Bremer’s message could not have been clearer.

Bremer’s use of surnames in the novel carries another powerful symbolic weight, particularly through bird imagery. Hertha’s surname, Falk (Falcon) evokes strength, freedom, and agency, emphasizing her aspiration for autonomy and moral elevation. This symbolism recurs with other characters: minor female characters often bear names suggestive of small birds, representing potential, delicacy, or the societal constraints placed upon them. Owls, cocks and other feathered animals are similarly utilised for different effects. By weaving bird imagery into the naming structure, Bremer creates a thematic network in which characters’ identities reflect their moral or social roles. Flight and freedom are not merely personal desires but symbolic markers of agency of all womankind, linking Hertha’s personal quest to broader social reconfiguration. Even birds unaware of their ability to fly, ought to have the liberty to do so.

The novel’s political strategy is further enhanced by Bremer’s literary techniques. The narrative alternates between Hertha’s personal experience and broader social observation, allowing readers to engage emotionally while also absorbing analytical critique. Bremer’s attention to Hertha’s internal life, her reflections on morality, education, and the limitations imposed upon her, transforms the novel into a vehicle for social argument. Every moment of personal frustration is carefully linked to systemic issues, from legal guardianship to marriage customs, illustrating the interplay between individual suffering and societal structures. Some sections, although framed as dialogue, read like lectures or info-dumps.

In the end, when all facts and declarations have been identified, established, and elaborated on, more than anything else it is Hertha’s very self: intelligent, morally unbreakable, steadfast, and rational; that embodies the main argument why women can be nothing but equal to men.

 

 

*This is amplified by the appendix that followed the book, containing a factual breakdown of the legal situation in Sweden at the time, complete with recent court decisions on the matter of women’s rights and the written arguments issued by the judges in support of their verdicts.

 

THERE THERE

Author: Tommy Orange
Year: 2018
Publisher: Bokförlaget Polaris
Language: Swedish (translator Eva Åsefeldt)

Present day America. The date for the annual pow wow in Oakland is approaching. Native Americans, predominantly from the Cheyenne and Arapaho Tribes, prepare for the great event, each for their own personal reasons. A middle-aged woman is going to re-unite with her children, a young man to collect stories for posterity, still another to dance for the first time in the ritual dances, and some are up to no good and plan to steal the safe containing rewards for the winners in various competitions.

Tommy Orange’s “Pow wow” (“There, There”) follows a dozen individuals in their preparations for the big day. It is a groundbreaking novel that reexamines the narrative of contemporary Native American life. Some critics have already hailed it as the beginning of a new era in Native American writing in the United States.

By means of a diverse gallery of characters and interwoven storylines, the book offers an intimate depiction of the challenges faced by Native peoples navigating urban environments, grappling with history, and negotiating identity in the 21^st century. Among the characters, to me Edwin Black in particular stands out as a compelling figure whose struggles illustrate the complexities of later-generation First Nations identity.

Edwin Black, a middle-aged man living in Oakland, embodies the tension of inherited trauma without the means to process it. The son of a white mother and a Cheyenne father, he is raised with little exposure to his Native roots. He struggles with alcoholism, obesity, sporadic employment, and his addiction to online gaming. Yet beneath this dysfunction lies a yearning for cultural grounding. His identity is less about participation in traditional rituals, which he remains largely oblivious of, and more about negotiating absence: absence of homeland, of community, and of coherent selfhood. Edwin’s narrative exemplifies the identity struggles likely faced by many later-generation First Nations individuals, whose connection to their heritage is fragmented due to historical displacement, systemic erasure, and colonial assimilation policies.

In this respect, Edwin’s experience shares similarities with second-generation immigrants in countries such as Sweden, who juggle multiple cultural belongings. Both groups negotiate between inherited cultural identity and dominant societal norms. However, the key difference lies in the historical context: second-generation immigrants often engage with living, accessible cultures from their parents’ homelands. Their identity is tied to a physical place where their heritage is prevalent as an idea. Edwin, on the other hand, must reconstruct identity from fragmented histories, oral narratives, and intermittent exposure to tribal knowledge, often from a distant, perhaps mythical, past. The urban Native experience, as dramatised by Edwin, is thus uniquely burdened by historical erasure and dispossession, making identity reclamation both a personal and generational endeavour, based on myth rather than roots.

Comparatively, later-generation First Nations identity shares features with other stateless or marginalised peoples, such as Kurds, Roma, and Sami. All face pressures of marginalisation, displacement, or cultural suppression. Kurds navigate multiple nation-states that deny sovereignty; Roma contend with centuries of persecution and societal marginalisation; the Sami face assimilationist pressures in Arctic regions. In this sense Native Americans’ experience is similar in its intimate connection to settler colonialism and land dispossession. Unlike diasporic peoples whose cultures may persist across borders, later-generation Native Americans must contend with erasure within a single nation-state. Edwin’s identity crisis is therefore intertwined with the absence of homeland and the historical trauma, adding layers of complexity absent from many other marginalised identities.

Juxtaposed with second-generation immigrant identity, Edwin’s experience is uniquely shaped by politics of recognition and erasure. Immigrant communities often negotiate belonging within pluralistic frameworks, while urban Native Americans must assert cultural presence against a backdrop of historical invisibility. It is telling that while a mere 0.3% of the population in the United States identified as First Nation in 1960, nearly 3% did so in 2020. Similarly, compared with Kurds, Roma, or Sami, the struggle of Native Americans intertwines personal, cultural, and legal dimensions: treaties, reservations, and federal recognition create a complex framework where identity is simultaneously lived and legislated. Edwin’s search for selfhood is therefore not only personal but also political, bridging historical trauma with contemporary urban realities.

Orange’s structural choice to follow multiple characters amplifies these explorations. For Edwin, the Oakland Coliseum pow wow symbolises both a literal and metaphorical “there”: a site of reconnection, performance, and confrontation with the past. Like other characters, such as Orvil Red Feather who learns traditional dance through Youtube, Opal Bear Shield who tries to hold her family together in a hostile social environment, and Dene Oxendene who documents Native stories as a filmmaker, Edwin’s journey emphasises the active labour required to reconstruct identity in contemporary urban contexts. The novel shows that Native identity in cities is neither static nor monolithic; it is a dynamic interplay of memory, cultural performance (or re-enactment even), and resilience. One could argue that the colonial and later US authorities over the centuries successfully shattered it, but failed to erase it.

In conclusion, “Pow wow” is a profound exploration of identity, trauma, and resilience. The individual journeys of each of the characters illustrate the particular struggles of later-generation Native Americans negotiating urban life and ancestral heritage. Tommy Orange’s novel challenges readers to confront the legacies of colonisation, the nuances of urban Native identity, and the interplay between past and present. This is knowledge that has been available to sociologists and anthropologists for decades. Would that this literary effort bring it to the attention of a broader public.

FOOLED BY RANDOMNESS

Author: Nassim Nicholas Taleb
Year: 2007 (2004)
Publisher: Penguin Books
Language: English

I am not a particularly intelligent man. I know what I need to know and I understand what others have told me I need to understand. I totter around the world like most other people oblivious of the size of the universe, relying to a large degree on knowledge generated by others and wisdom accumulated by generations before me. I am, by all accounts, a banker belonging to the most commonplace persuasion.

And yet, the mediocre mind that I possess, I still cannot find a single original thought in Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s “Fooled by Randomness”, hailed by Fortune Magazine as ‘one of the smartest books of all time’.  

“Fooled by Randomness” has achieved near-canonical status in the literature of risk, uncertainty, and human irrationality. Its reputation rests on its supposedly radical thesis: that we routinely mistake luck for skill, underestimate randomness, and build narratives to explain what is often just noise. Yet reading the book critically, one is struck less by its originality and more by Taleb’s flair for repackaging ideas that, while vital, are hardly new.

At its core, “Fooled by Randomness” argues that human beings are cognitively ill-equipped to understand probabilistic reality. Taleb illustrates how traders, investors, CEOs, and even scientists often credit themselves for success that is better attributed to statistical variance. This insight, though forcefully delivered, echoes long-established ideas from behavioural economics, cognitive psychology, and philosophy from Hume’s scepticism about causation to Popper’s critique of historical determinism. Taleb’s contribution thus remains shrouded in mystery.

Ironically, what he presents as revelatory is something many thoughtful readers might consider common sense: unpredictable events happen (or “shit happens” might better capture it), luck plays a large role in outcomes, and our confidence in our own stories far exceeds the evidence of their actuality. His central admonition, “expect the unexpected”, is ancient in spirit. So is “alea iacta est”. Or “pride goeth before destruction”. The list goes on and on.  

One is reminded of Stoic counsel, medieval warnings against hubris, and the probabilistic humility embedded in scientific method or the biblical call to modesty, piety and reflection. Taleb’s philosophical posture is a modern reframing of old wisdom, delivered with charismatic frustration at humanity’s refusal to internalise it.

But this lack of originality does not render the book irrelevant. If anything, it underscores Taleb’s larger, and surprisingly damning, point: even the simplest probabilistic truths must be endlessly restated because we as humans persistently fail to live by them. We prefer neat explanations over messy randomness, confident predictions over uncertainty, and flattering narratives over the humbling truth of chance.

A particularly sharp example is his takedown of the caste of Risk Managers in financial institutions. Taleb argues that Risk Managers act primarily to protect themselves rather than their firms. From my own professional experience, this rings painfully true: risk frameworks often become bureaucratic armour rather than genuine safeguards, designed more to deflect blame than to confront uncertainty.

The very fact that “Fooled by Randomness” feels obvious is part of its evidence: our institutions and personal decisions alike routinely disregard what should be common sense.

This is where the book earns its value. Taleb’s observations, though not groundbreaking, are delivered with a piercing clarity that exposes the gap between what we should know and how we actually behave. He forces the reader to confront not merely intellectual errors but the emotional and cultural forces that encourage them. If we continuously act as though the world is more predictable than it is, then perhaps even cliché warnings about uncertainty need to be articulated, loudly and repeatedly.

In the end, “Fooled by Randomness” is less an original treatise than a necessary one. Its power lies not in novelty but in its unrelenting insistence that our blindness to randomness is self-inflicted and catastrophically persistent. Taleb may not tell us anything fundamentally new, but he tells us what we perpetually fail to remember. Rather like a demented patient is repeatedly fascinated by the same discovery, to our oblivious selves, this book endures as a periodical reminder of something our primitive minds simply cannot contain for any meaningful period of time.

WHAT IS SOCIAL DEMOCRACY?

Author: Ingvar Carlsson & Anne-Marie Lindgren
Year: 2019
Publisher: Tankesmedjan Tiden
Language: Swedish 

Social Democracy is by far the most successful political project in Sweden and the rest of Scandinavia in the 20^th century, and it is at the core of what made this region the envy of the world*. But few people, even those who vote for the Social Democratic party or identify as social democrats, truly know what it is.

As debates over the meaning of social democracy grew increasingly muddled, Ingvar Carlsson, who would later become leader of the Social Democratic Party and Sweden’s prime minister, teamed up with Anne-Marie Lindgren, a respected publisher and political analyst, to bring clarity. In 1974 they co-authored “Vad är socialdemokrati” (“What is Social Democracy”); a concise attempt to define the party’s principles and purpose. The book has since been translated to a number of languages, and revised and updated four times. The latest edition, published in 2019, reflects both the endurance of the project and the evolution of its ideas.

The book is divided into six sections: 1. History of Social Democracy, 2. Ideological legacy of Social Democracy 3. Social Democratic ideological development: The world of production, 4. Social Democratic ideological development: Distribution of the results of production 5. Social Democracy – am outdated ideology? 6. The future?

If there is a single lesson to be drawn from this book, it is that it should not be mistaken for either a bible or a manifesto. Social democracy, by its very nature, resists dogma. It rejects any fundamentalist interpretation of its founders or ideological forerunners. As Carlsson and Lindgren themselves put it:

“Within some left-wing parties, Marx and ‘Marxism’ (or notions of ’Marxism) have at periods of time been seen almost as a religious document, in which some of the more obscure words provide a guideline that is not to be questioned. Such trends, albeit not as evident as in the past, can also be found in modern-day debate. This type of single-minded literal approach is extremely dangerous – and this applies to all theories – political or religious – seen as representing the Truth with a capital T. The history of Communism shows us how dangerous such single-mindedness can be, and how it directly opposes the ideal of freedom and equality.”**

It is thus neither a roadmap nor a yardstick, nor does it claim to be a philosophical treatise on the nature of happiness or a blueprint for utopia. Instead, it offers a framework for understanding society, an intellectual toolkit that enables readers to identify the structures and processes that produce social injustice, and to devise practical, contextually relevant solutions suited to their own time and circumstances.

Although its intellectual roots lie in the writings of Karl Marx, the social-democratic movement began reinventing itself almost from the outset. A decisive break with classical Marxism, as articulated in the “Communist Manifesto” (see review from August 2021), came when social democrats abandoned the goal of redistributing ownership of the means of production and instead sought to democratise control over them. This shift owed much to the trade unions, which formed the backbone of Sweden’s labour movement. Traditionally, economists distinguish between two main factors of production: capital and labour. The unions’ initial priority was to gain greater control over the latter; the time, energy and skills of their members. But their thinking soon influenced the political wing of the movement. The call to transfer ownership of capital gave way to a more pragmatic demand: to share control over capital and the rewards of production more equitably.

This insight proved decisive in sparing Scandinavia the violent upheavals that shook parts of Europe under Communist and Fascist movements. Instead, it laid the foundation for a path of gradual, democratic reform. Once owners of capital recognised that their property rights were not under direct threat, they became more inclined to negotiate and compromise. The result was the emergence of the so-called Swedish model, i.e. an enduring framework that balances the interests of capital, labour and the broader public. It fostered a society in which innovation and cooperation could flourish, not through conflict, but through consensus, ensuring that no group’s prosperity came at the systematic expense of another.

The at the time of writing this ongoing dispute between Tesla and the Swedish trade union IF Metall must be seen in this historical context. Tesla’s management appears to operate as though it is free from norms and responsibilities, yet their actions risk undermining the very foundation of Sweden’s prosperous welfare model. Elon Musk’s apparent inability to recognise or respect this legacy is regrettable. Equally, if not more concerning, however, is the fact that many Swedish workers, by opting not to join the union, seem unaware of the broader consequences of their choices for both themselves and the collective framework that has long safeguarded their rights.

It is a pity that works such as this by Carlsson and Lindgren are unlikely to alter this dynamic. The reason is simple: their arguments demand a degree of analytical sophistication that, in 2025, remains beyond the grasp of much of the population leaving it up to others to fight their fights for them.

* Yes haters, it is hardly a secret that the acrid venom you spew upon Sweden on social media springs from none other but your own envy and crushing sense of inadequacy. You are not fooling anybody.

** The whole book is available in English at the Palme Center webpage, wherefrom this quote was sourced.

A DOUBLE PORTRAIT

Author: Agneta Pleijel
Year: 2020
Publisher: Norstedts
Language: Swedish 

My first brush with Agneta Pleijel’s writing occurred in the early noughties through her work “Lord Nevermore”. This is a tale spun around two Polish souls of vastly different temperaments yet bound by the exquisite absurdity of friendship, and parted, as fate would have it, by the ruthless savagery of inane politics, in this case the first world war. What struck me the most was the ease and elegance with which she recreates the private chambers of her characters’ minds, not so much depicting the young men but rather listening in to a conversation between them. To read her was like attending a séance where the dead remained unaware of the living and conversed uninhibitedly with one another in our presence. In later years, she turned her art inward and produced that singular re-invention of the autobiography that I was moved to christen synaisthimatography; the cartography of the emotional landscape itself. By this work alone, she surely established herself as a towering giant of modern belletristic writing.

In “Dubbelporträtt” (not available in English but a rough translation could be “A Double Portrait”), Pleijel returns to the semi-biographical but deeply personal storytelling. The tale is based on the true story of Agatha Christie, the undisputed queen of mystery, sitting for Oskar Kokoschka, the world-renowned Viennese painter from whom Christie’s grandson Matthew commissioned a portrait of his grandmother for her 80^th birthday. Both Christie and Kokoschka reluctantly accept the initiative.

In her subtle orchestration of this encounter, Pleijel permits Kokoschka to try to engage in meaningful and intimate conversation with his highly reserved subject, in an attempt to capture her personality for the portrait. The elderly lady, ever on guard and unwilling to let anybody in, especially not a foreign painter, no matter how prominent her grandson assures her that he may be, proves delightfully impervious to analysis. While the painter imagines himself dissecting her soul, it is she who conducts the true inquisition, listening serenely as he reveals far more of himself than she ever intended to yield.

And so the drama unfolds across six sittings, each one a duel disguised as civility, while the portrait slowly but surely takes form. Not until the very end, Christie finally opens up and grants Kokoschka the keys to her inner self allowing for the portrait to become the masterpiece that is still in Matthew’s possession to this day. A memento of an English heart momentarily unveiled.  

“Dubbelpoträtt” may lack the sweeping grandeur of “Lord Nevermore” but the inimitable Pleijelan blend of whit, warmth, and curiosity all abound. Beneath its modest frame, dwells an investigation of more profound dimensions than first meets the eye. For what, in truth, is a portrait? Is it the likeness of the subject, or the confession of the artist? Is the final painting really a portrait of Agatha Christie? Or is it a portrait of Oskar Kokoschka painting Agatha Christie?

And here Pleijel strikes her most modern note. In an age intoxicated with machines that imitate human thought and creativity, she reminds us that art has never been about replication, but revelation. A machine may produce an image; only a human can err beautifully enough to make it art.

Art in all forms can be said to be a reflection of the artist. This includes the art of writing. In an interview from 2020, Pleijel confessed that her choice of exploring this legendary encounter was born from love for their arts. No one was present in the room when Christie sat for Kokoschka. No one knows what words were uttered. So Agneta Pleijel does what historians cannot. She invents. The novel is a re-imagination of the event. The conversation is what Pleijel imagines could have taken place. Or maybe even what she hopes actually transpired.

Thus, as the portrait was more about its creator than its subject, “Dubbelporträtt” becomes a story less about Agatha Christie or Oskar Kokoschka and more about Agneta Pleijel. Perhaps, she does not step into the minds of her characters. Rather, she invites them to dwell within hers. As did Kokoschka. The outcome is that most exquisite of human inventions; the fusion of creator and creation, where truth and illusion clasp hands and become what we call art.

 

BLINDNESS

Author: José Saramago
Year: 1998 (1995)
Publisher: Wahlström & Widstrand
Language: Swedish (translator Hans Berggren)

In Olga Tokarczuk’s short story “Seams” (in the short story collection “Tales of the Bizarre” reviewed in January 2020) a man wakes to discover subtle but uncanny alterations in his world. Socks that suddenly have seams, stamps that are now round instead of square, the familiar blue ink in his pen inexplicably replaced by brown. Socks aren’t supposed to have seams, are they? These small deviations from the expected unravel his sense of stability. He is bewildered, but those around him find nothing unusual. For them, round stamps and brown ink are the natural order of things. Through these quiet distortions, Tokarczuk exposes how fragile the category of “normality” really is, how dependent our sanity and social coherence are on countless unnoticed details that we assume to be permanent. If such trivial shifts can destabilise us, how deep are our roots in what we call reality? How thin is the membrane separating order from chaos?

José Saramago’s “Blindheten” (“Blindness”) poses this question on a catastrophic scale. Whereas Tokarczuk’s protagonist falters before the dissonance of socks and stamps, Saramago strips his characters of sight altogether, and with it, the entire apparatus of modern life. The sudden epidemic of blindness tears through an unnamed city, dissolving the seams that hold civilisation together. Law, government, decency, even the simplest routines of cleanliness or trust collapse within days. If Tokarczuk reveals the precariousness of order in miniature, Saramago demonstrates its total implosion. Civilisation, it seems, is not an edifice of stone but a scaffolding of habits, agreements, and illusions that threatens to collapse at the slightest tremor.

Among the many who stumble through the blindness, two figures form the novel’s most striking contrast. As all other characters they remain nameless: the doctor’s wife and the girl with the sunglasses. They appear at first as opposites. The doctor’s wife embodies middle-class respectability, a figure of family stability and conventional decency. The girl with the sunglasses, a part-time sex worker (not by financial necessity but by sexual promiscuity) belongs to the margins, shielding herself from social stigma behind her tinted lenses. Yet in the moment of disaster, their paths converge, and in their juxtaposition Saramago reveals two poles of human response to catastrophe: one grounded in responsibility and altruism, the other in intimacy and rediscovered dignity.

SPOILER ALERT

The doctor’s wife, uniquely spared from blindness, steps out of her prominent husband’s shadow and becomes the group’s reluctant leader. Her immunity to blindness is never explained. It is allegorical, a reminder that to see is not only to perceive but to bear responsibility. She becomes a kind of inverted panopticon. In Foucault’s famous image, the one who sees from the central tower exerts power over the many who are seen. Yet here, the doctor’s wife does not discipline but suffers. Her vision is a burden. She alone must clean the excrement-covered ward, lead the group through chaos, bury the dead, and carry the memory of all she witnesses. Seeing, for her, is not empowerment but an ethical wound, an obligation to act when others cannot. For this reason, she keeps her ability a secret from the others.

The girl with the sunglasses undergoes a transformation of another sort. Stripped of the markers of her profession, she is no longer defined by society’s hypocrisy. Her beauty, once a commodity, becomes irrelevant; her sunglasses, formerly a mask against judgment, lose their function in a world where no one sees. In their place emerges a person of compassion and tenderness. She nurses the old man with the black eyepatch with a love that is untainted by transaction, discovering an intimacy that had eluded her in her previous life. If the doctor’s wife embodies the pain of clarity, the girl with the sunglasses embodies the possibility of moral vision even within blindness.

Together, they lay bare the thinness of the veneer that Thomas Hobbes diagnosed centuries earlier. In “Leviathan” (reviewed in April 2022) Hobbes warned that without strong institutions, life reverts to a brutish war of all against all. Saramago stages this collapse with merciless precision. Within days, the quarantine asylum devolves into violence, hoarding, and sexual exploitation. Food becomes currency, women are traded like rations, cruelty and cowardice reign. Western civilisation, so confident in its legal codes and humanitarian principles, is revealed as the emperor’s new clothes. It rests not on unshakable foundations but on such invisible seams as agreements, routines, shared perceptions, and as Hobbes would argue, the fear of repercussions. Once sight is lost, the seams disintegrate.

And yet, the novel resists cynicism. For even within this Hobbesian nightmare, solidarity flickers. The doctor’s wife shoulders responsibility without succumbing to domination. The girl with the sunglasses discovers dignity in love rather than passion. Together, they sketch the possibility of a different humanity: one not guaranteed, but latent beneath the collapse. Saramago suggests that civilisation’s scaffolding may be fragile, but within the rubble there are still gestures of recognition and care that refuse to be vanquished.

The ending offers no easy redemption. Sight returns arbitrarily, just as it was lost. We may assume that civilisation will be rebuilt. The city remains there. But whether it will be less blind than before remains doubtful. The doctor’s wife, still sighted, has seen too much to trust in renewal. The girl with the sunglasses, by contrast, carries the fragile hope that love discovered in blindness might persist into sight. Between them, they frame the paradox of the human condition: responsibility and compassion, burden and intimacy, clarity and fragility.

Saramago’s novel may be a provocative accusation against the weakness and baseness of man, but it is without a doubt a triumph for literature. His prose flows like an unbroken current, lyrical, ironic, and humane, where his long sentences carry profound truths, while his short ones either prick or punch in just the right spot as is necessary. And it seems that when one looks at the world of today, one may feel a little like Tokarczuk’s protagonist wondering about abnormal seams. We used to berate liars, didn’t we? Fascism used to be a bad thing, didn’t it? One would be forgiven for entertaining the idea that in order to open certain minds to the truth, they first need to be gently pricked… or in some cases, forcefully punched.