Author: Olga Tokarczuk
Year: 2016 (2009)
Publisher: Wydawnictwo Literackie
Language: Polish
Polish
writer Olga Tokarczuk is one of a handful of writers that I was familiar with
before they were awarded the Nobel Prize in literature. I have also previously
shared some thoughts on her writing on my blog (see review of “Tales of the
Bizarre” from January 2020). One of her most famous titles, and for many Swedes
the entry point into her literary output, is “Prowadź swój pług przez kości
umarłych” (“Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead”). This novel presents a
narrative that intertwines themes of justice, accountability, and the nature of
existence, enveloped in a murder mystery, all through the perspective of
Janina, an eccentric and reclusive woman living in a remote village in the
Polish mountains.
At the
heart of Janina’s existence is a profound sense of alienation. She is an
outsider in the community, not just because of her eccentricities and lifestyle
but also because of her unconventional moral beliefs. Her deep empathy for
animals and her insistence on treating them as equals to humans, including
ascribing them the ability to plan and execute elaborate coordinated acts of
passion, create a worldview that sharply contrasts with the dominant
human-centric perspective of the other characters in the novel.
This
alienation can perhaps be understood as a defence mechanism in the sense that
it is a way of protecting herself from the disillusionment of a society that
has failed to acknowledge the deeper, more empathetic layers of existence. Her
past as a successful architect is only hinted at and when it is, only in the
meaning of her falling out of favour and choosing to seclude herself from
society.
Janina’s
second obsession is with astrology. At first glance, this seems to emphasise
her commitment to the idea of a unified universe or natural cohesion, but it
also suggests an unconscious desire for control in an unpredictable and
threatening world. She believes that the natural world is governed by a higher,
mystical order, one that can be understood through astrology and the signs of
nature. This belief can be interpreted as a manifestation of the need for
certainty in a disappointing and inexplicable Kosmos, as well as an attempt to
find meaning in the randomness of life and death, success and humiliation.
Through astrology, she constructs an alternate narrative in which the forces of
the universe—rather than the arbitrary and ultimately meaningless cruelty of
human beings—are in control.
Above all
of this hovers Janina’s problematic views on justice. Despite her conviction
that every action is predetermined by the stars and that people have but
limited freedom to determine who they become and what choices they make, she is
drawn to the idea of accountability, guilt, and retribution. Above all, this is
manifested by the novel’s poetic leitmotif “Songs of Innocence and of
Experience” by British 18th-century poet William Blake. These poems explore the
tension between the innocence of childhood and the corruption of adulthood, the
dualities of good and evil, and the human capacity for both creation and
destruction. Janina identifies with Blake’s vision of a world that is not
simply governed by societal conventions but is in constant conflict between the
opposing forces of innocence and corruption. The opposite of innocence is not
guilt; it is experience, society, education, and history. Corruption is thus
inevitable. Janina’s quest for justice is not grounded in human legal systems
but in her own moral code, one that aligns with Blake’s critique of
institutionalised power and the systems that fail not only to protect the
vulnerable but moreover to preserve innocence to begin with.
This is
where equality between humans and other animals ends. Janina never tries to
read the horoscope for an animal. She does not judge them for their instincts
the way she judges humans for acting upon theirs. The idea of justice echoes
throughout Janina's pursuit of a reckoning for the wrongs committed against
animals and the natural world. The divide between the human and animal kingdoms
is not based on our intellect, technology, language, culture, or society. To
Janina, the only dividing factor is mankind’s deviation from innocence.
Author: Hannah Arendt
Year: 1992 (1963)
Publisher: Daidalos
Language: Swedish (Translator Barbro & Ingemar Lundberg)
Hannah
Arendt’s “Den banala ondskan” (“Eichmann in Jerusalem”) remains one of the most
provocative and intellectually rigorous studies of totalitarianism, moral
responsibility, and the nature of evil in the twentieth century. Emerging from
Arendt’s coverage of Adolf Eichmann’s 1961 trial in Jerusalem for The New Yorker,
the book offers both a historical account of the Nazi bureaucrat’s role in the
Holocaust and a profound philosophical meditation on the mechanisms of mass
murder. With her penetrating analysis and sharp prose, Arendt delivers a work
that continues to spark debate among scholars, ethicists, and political
theorists to this day.
At the
heart of the book lies Arendt’s groundbreaking thesis of the “banality of
evil.” Rather than portraying Eichmann as a monstrous figure driven by
ideological fanaticism or sadistic cruelty, she presents him as a disturbingly
ordinary bureaucrat, a man whose mindless adherence to duty and legalistic
rationalisation enabled his participation in genocidal policies. In Arendt’s
view, Eichmann’s moral blindness and lack of critical self-examination, rather
than inherent malice, made him a key functionary in the Nazi machinery of
death. At the heart of the book lies Arendt’s groundbreaking thesis of the
“banality of evil.” Rather than portraying Eichmann as a monstrous figure
driven by ideological fanaticism or sadistic cruelty, she presents him as a
disturbingly ordinary bureaucrat, a man whose mindless adherence to duty and
legalistic rationalisation enabled his participation in genocidal policies.
Arendt’s
work is methodically structured, meticulously researched, and philosophically
astute. She provides a comprehensive account of Eichmann’s career, from his
early days as a functionary in the SS to his central role in organising the
logistics of deportation and extermination. At the same time, she does not shy
away from critiquing the legal and political dimensions of the trial itself,
particularly the use of the Israeli court to serve a broader national and
symbolic function. While she acknowledges the necessity of justice, she raises
concerns about the legal framework under which Eichmann was prosecuted,
particularly the retrospective application of laws and the potential for
political instrumentalisation.
Despite its
intellectual brilliance, “Den banala ondskan” was met with intense controversy,
particularly regarding Arendt’s perceived tone and her discussion of Jewish
leadership’s role in the Holocaust.
A more
confined but no less interesting area of critique, however, was her engagement
with Immanuel Kant’s categorical imperative. Arendt accuses Eichmann of
distorting Kant’s idea, arguing that he misapplied the principle in his defence.
A more rigorous reading of Kant, however, complicates Arendt’s conclusion,
raising the unsettling possibility that Eichmann’s actions were, at least
formally, consistent with Kantian ethics.
Arendt
asserts that Eichmann invoked Kant’s categorical imperative in bad faith,
failing to grasp its fundamental emphasis on moral autonomy. Eichmann claimed
that he acted according to duty, submitting to laws that he did not himself
create, and he saw his role as implementing the decrees of the Führer rather
than exercising independent moral judgment. Arendt dismisses this defence,
arguing that Kant’s philosophy demands self-legislation in accordance with
universal moral law, rather than blind obedience to external commands. However,
this interpretation raises a significant dilemma: Kant’s moral philosophy is
famously rigid in its emphasis on duty, and under certain conditions, it may
indeed produce the kind of mechanical compliance that Arendt condemns.
In short,
Eichmann’s compliance with the categorical imperative was not a matter of
genocide, which would hardly be possible to reconcile with Kant’s ideas, but
rather of duty and following the law. No single individual can will their own
law, but they can will whether to abide by it or not. Willing that the law is
universally obeyed seems quite compatible with the categorical imperative.
Many
notable thinkers have over the years supported Arendt’s conclusions that a
reading of Kant that provides for such heinous acts as the Holocaust is a gross
distortion. Carsten Bagge Laustsen and Rasmus Ugilt even go as far as calling
it “absurd”. Slavoj Zizek sees it as a circular argument to say that ‘your duty
is to do your duty.” Others, like Joshua Halberstam, are less dismissive. For
if the act of abiding by the law cannot be elevated to universal law, there seems
to be an inherent flaw in our understanding of what law means.
Be it as it
will, Arendt’s insights into the bureaucratic nature of modern evil remain
profoundly relevant in contemporary discussions of state violence, obedience to
authority, and moral responsibility. Her reflections on the dangers of
unthinking conformity resonate beyond the historical context of the Holocaust,
offering a crucial framework for analysing crimes against humanity in later
periods. Including our own era.
Author: Cara Hunter
Year: 2023
Publisher: Harper Collins Publishers
Language: English
In an affluent
London neighbourhood, a young man is murdered in the garden of a stately townhouse.
The Metropolitan Police conduct an investigation, yet despite their efforts,
the case yields no arrests. With no clear leads, it is eventually relegated to
the archives, another unsolved crime gathering dust in the cold-case cabinet. Decades
later, the victim’s stepson approaches a television producer with a proposal
that reflects the growing public appetite for true-crime entertainment. His
idea is to assemble a panel of experts, criminologists, forensic specialists, psychologists,
and lawyers, and task them with solving the decades-old mystery.
The novelty
of “Murder in the Family” by Cara Hunter lies neither in its setting nor plot
but in its narrative structure. Rather than a conventional story, it unfolds as
a script, a transcription of the television show itself. Dialogue lines are
interspersed with brief stage directions indicating characters’ movements,
expressions, and positioning. The episodes are punctuated by a television
critic’s column, as well as text message and email exchanges, adding layers of
commentary and context. The investigative process itself remains offstage. The
team, assembled before the cameras, reports on their findings and the reader is
exposed only to their discussions during filming; never the interrogations,
site visits, and forensic analyses that take place between episodes. The result
is a story shaped not by direct action, but by the act of performance, blurring
the lines between investigation and entertainment.
“Murder in
the Family” is the second epistolary or documentary-style book project I have
encountered in a short span. The first, “Sleeping Giants” by Sylvain Neuvel (reviewed
here in January 2024), struggled to sustain its premise. By contrast, “Murder
in the Family” is a more cohesive effort. Its dialogue is largely convincing,
and the information conveyed seems relevant not only to the plot but, more
importantly, to the characters themselves.
The plot is
engaging and immersive, though it spirals out of hand toward the end in pursuit
of a bombastic finale. Hunter appears aware of this challenge and makes efforts
to maintain a sense of plausibility. She weaves in backstories and character
dynamics among the investigative team, designed to introduce both conflict and
intrigue. These, too, require explanation, and the author makes a concerted
effort to provide it, with varying levels of subtlety.
These challenges
may, in part, stem from the book’s intended audience. Written for young adults,
who seem to expect heightened drama and neck breaking plot twists, it relies on
narrative devices that, while effective in maintaining engagement, ultimately
strain credibility. To sustain the attention of less seasoned readers, the
author introduces developments that eventually veer from the credible and enter
into the forced. Halfway into the novel the central murder mystery has become
secondary to the evolving discord between the investigative team members. The
book’s cover invites readers to “solve the mystery before they do,” but this
challenge is undercut by the steady infusion of new information designed more
to generate surprise and suspense than to encourage deduction.
A minor but
noticeable detail lies in the portrayal of the novel’s transatlantic cast.
Given that the team members hail from various backgrounds and countries, the
recurring references to distinctions between British and American English
suggest an awareness of cultural and linguistic nuance. Yet, the author forfeits
the opportunity to manifest this in the orthography. Therefore, the American
character, a former member of New York’s finest speaks of “colours” and
“neighbours”. It is easily explained by pointing out that the transcript of a
British television show will be in British English, but nonetheless a missed
opportunity.
“Murder in
the Family” is an entertaining and easily digestible book which, had it been
more geared toward the mystery and less he-said-she-said-high-school-drama, could
have been a truly engaging reading experience.
Author: Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
Year: 1992 (1923, 1925, 1963)
Publisher: Chancellor Press
Language: English
If one has
yet to make the acquaintance of Reginald Jeeves, gentleman’s personal
gentleman, and his occasionally woolly-headed employer, Bertram Wilberforce
Wooster, then one has the good fortune of standing on the precipice of a rare
delight. A world inundated by country house antics, aunts of a most fearsome
disposition, and engagements formed and dissolved at the drop of a hat awaits.
"The
Jeeves Collection" by P. G. Wodehouse is, in short, a smorgasbord of delightful
prose, absurd entanglements, and a valet who would have the whole world running
smoother than a well-buttered crumpet if given half a chance. The form of the
whole bally thing is best characterised as a conglomeration of three short
story collections originally titled “Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves”, “The Inimitable
Jeeves”, and “Carry On, Jeeves” published between 1923 and 1963. The plots revolve
around Bertram’s gallant but misguided attempts to navigate society,
friendships, and the occasional perilous romance, all while Jeeves hovers in
the background, dispensing wisdom like a brainy, and often quite smug, but always
impeccable oracle in a black tie.
The
universe of Jeeves and Wooster abound with memorable characters, all of whom
regularly put good old Bertie in the soup; be it the constantly lovesick Bingo
Little, the irredeemably over-confident Tuppy Glossop, the tyrannical aunt Agatha,
the choleric Roderick Spode, or any other family member, friend, acquaintance,
and antagonist. Watching over it all is Jeeves, who, with the quiet confidence
of a man who has long since mastered the art of crisis management, extracts his
employer from every mess.
Jeeves’ solutions,
however, are not always as seamless as one might have preferred, and particularly
in situations where one of Bertie’s friends needs to be rescued in one way or
other, Jeeves seems to find an almost sadistic pleasure in humiliating his Master.
It all turns out well for all parties in the end, but for the most part, it is
Bertie who picks up the bill. The happy-go-lucky chum that he is, he seems quite
content doing so.
One cannot,
of course, read Wodehouse without tripping over the troublesome relics of the
British class system. The world of Jeeves and Wooster is one where gentlemen of
leisure drift from club to country house, their primary duties involving
luncheon, light banter, and avoiding employment (and in Wooster’s case marriage)
at all costs. Meanwhile, the true machinery of civilization hums efficiently
beneath them, powered by the clerks and workers of the world; some of whom, like
Jeeves, while technically in service, are in fact the real puppet masters of
the social order.
For all its
rowdy escapades, Wodehouse’s world is one in which class boundaries remain
firmly intact, though observed with a knowing wink. Bertie, good egg that he
is, relies entirely on Jeeves to navigate the deceiving waters of life, never
questioning the latter’s superior intellect. Indeed, the Jeeves-Wooster dynamic
is less that of employer and servant, and more of an amiable lord-and-vassal
arrangement, where the vassal is unquestionably in charge but allows the lord
the comforting illusion of authority.
Wodehouse’s
language, at last, is a pleasure to behold. Sentences are assembled with the
precision of a Swiss watchmaker who has also, in his spare time, mastered the
art of comedy. One finds oneself guffawing at the sheer ridiculousness of it
all, and if one is not careful, alarming nearby creatures with bursts of
unexpected amusement.
In
conclusion, life is short and one can never have too much of a good thing. Especially
when that good thing involves a valet of Jeeves’s calibre, a cast of characters
whose primary purpose seems to be hurling themselves into disaster, and an
author whose wit is as keen as Jeeves’ powers of observation and as fiery as
Bingo Little’s heart.
Author: Per Anders Fogelström
Year: 1968
Publisher: Albert Bonniers Förlag
Language: Swedish
The story
about the ultimate metamorphosis of Stockholm, from an impoverished hamlet to a
prosperous, albeit small metropolis, reaches its completion in the fifth and
final instalment of Per Anders Fogelström’s classic “City”-pentalogy: “Stad i
världen” (“City in the World”). During the preceding books, Fogelström has chronicled
how the dilapidated huts that once housed the many denizens of the Swedish
capital’s working class were dismantled and triumphantly replaced by stately
edifices featuring such blessings of modernity as running water, central
heating, and electricity. In the final volume, the population has begun to reap
the fruits of public education, job security, and democratic rights. The gulf
between the grim struggles of Henning Nilsson, who first migrated into the city
in the mid-19th century in “Mina drömmars stad” (see review from August 2024),
and the comfortable lives of his descendants a century later could scarcely be deeper.
Fogelström
does not end there, however. He is not blind to the new era and the challenges that
await the generation that will populate post-war Stockholm. While their
grandparents marvel at the privileges that grace their lives, the youngsters, largely
oblivious of the hardships endured by their predecessors, stand impatient on
their inherited pedestal, making new demands and aiming for loftier horizons,
much to the amazement, and sometimes disapproval, of their elders.
The final abandonment
of the old era is symbolised by the death of Emelie Nilsson, Henning’s and
Lotten’s daughter, and the backbone of the series. Emelie was a heroine of such
monumental proportions that the final success of Henning’s entire lineage
depended on her. Cruelly orphaned as a teenager, she was tethered to her
destiny by the last words of her dying mother, Lotten: “Take care of your
brother”; words that would etch themselves into the core of her heart and
define her entire life. Yet Emelie’s care would extend far beyond her brother;
she embraced family, neighbours, and friends with a magnanimity so profound
that she became the invisible architect of their development. The progenitor of
none, but a mother to all.
Among
Fogelström’s characters, one that intrigues more than others in “Stad i världen”
is the virtually inconsequential side character Olle Holm. Olle is the archetype
of the indignant working-class conservative. He is an honest and hard-working
man who is barely scraping by financially but proud to be independent and to
appear strong-willed and single-minded. He has little regard for the hardships
of others and regularly sets himself as a model for all humanity to emulate. To
him, social security is squander, because if he can work to support himself, so
can everybody else. He sees no point in aligning the traffic circulation to the
right-hand-traffic of the rest of Europe, because he never has reason to drive
in Denmark or Germany so why should anybody else, etc. Olle clings fiercely to
the myth of his solitary success, scorning the sacrifices of generations past.
To him, those who falter below him are lazy, those who ascend above him are crooked.
In this character, Fogelström captures the timeless paradox of the man who
turns his back on solidarity, seduced by the emotional allure of rugged
individualism, even as he unwittingly basks in the warmth of collective labour
and sacrifice. A figure whose bitterness and pride foreshadow the discontent
that, in later decades, would make part of the working-class shift their allegiance
from social democracy to the darker allure of nationalist populism.
The final
judgment of Fogelström’s magnum opus can be nothing less than unqualified
acclaim as it has indubitably earned its place in the Swedish canon. With the
artistry of a master, Fogelström ushers the reader through the ebb and flood of
history, never stooping to pedantry or encumbering his prose with
technicalities and infodumps. Each historical event weaves seamlessly into the
storyline interlocking with the fates of his characters, their actions,
thoughts, and feelings. Though every protagonist is born from the author’s
imagination, they breathe with the unmistakable vitality of flesh-and-blood
Stockholmers of bygone eras. There are no villains in Fogelström’s Stockholm,
merely real people who seek their own way of negotiating the vicissitudes of fate.
Some prevail. Others succumb. Yet everyone feels achingly tangible, authentic,
vibrant, and profoundly human. This, perhaps, is Fogelström’s greatest triumph:
not merely to recount the story of a city, but to evoke its soul, embodied in
the lives of its people.
Author: Jan Guillou
Year: 2000
Publisher: Piratförlaget
Language: Swedish
The
crusades have reached their sad end, leaving the crusaders battered by
humiliation, fatigue, and, in the luckiest cases, merely the indignity of
survival, as they make their way home to their predominantly European
homesteads. Among these weary souls is Arn Magnusson, or, as his fellow
Templars knew him, Arn de Gothia; a knight whose life was spared and pockets
lined with gold by the magnanimous Sultan Saladin, the conqueror of Jerusalem
and paragon of nobility. Surrounded by an entourage of engineers, horsekeepers,
physicians, blacksmiths and other denizens of the Middle East, he returns to
the land of his fathers in the far north from whence he had departed to serve
the Church in its holy quest over twenty years prior. When we encounter him
again, it is within the pages of “Riket vid vägens slut (“The Kingdom at
the End of the Road”), the third and final part of Jan Guillou's trilogy.
Arn returns
to a kingdom united under his childhood friend, King Magnus Eriksson. Yet even
as the land stands nominally united, the shadow of discord looms large as a
rival dynasty, bolstered by the support of Denmark's monarch, plots its
dissolution. Observing the fragile balance, Arn realises that his mastery of
swordplay and horsemanship are insufficient to
ensure peace in the land and the unchallenged influence for his family. To
the consternation of his kin, he puts in motion a peace project of unparallelled ambition based on
engineering, trade, and a crushing war machine.
The Arn of
the final volume is a figure reshaped and remoulded, bearing little resemblance
to the devout and unassuming knight we got to know in the first two books. Gone
are the piety and modesty that once defined him. In their stead, we find a man of
pride and arrogance. He wears the family crest or the Templar’s cape, symbols
once held sacred, alternately as required to promote his personal agenda. He
insists on bearing his sword into church, disregarding the reprehension of
other parishioners. He is indifferent toward his brother. He taunts his
adversaries.
It is
tempting to excuse such a transformation as the natural result of a life
scarred by trauma and the memories of mayhem and devastation. A man who has
seen the worst of humanity and the full scale of its incompetence, corruption,
and folly, might well return to the simplicity of his backwater origins cynical
and arrogant. Yet such character development demands exploration, an inquiry
into the slow erosion of virtue and the creeping dominance of bitterness in the
once innocent heart. Alas, Guillou provides none of that. The shift in Arn’s
character feels less like the organic development of a man’s soul and more like
the result of a writer who has grown tired of his soft-spoken and timid hero
and without much ceremony rewrites him as a bad-boy. The result is a screeching
dissonance: the Arn Magnusson who departs the Holy Land at the end of “Tempelriddaren”
(see review from September 2024) is not the Arn Magnusson who strides into West
Gothland in “Riket vid vägens slut”.
Although
“Riket vid vägens slut” is less encumbered by heroism and bravado than the
first and particularly the second book, there is no shortage of boyish
fantasies about a superhero who in this case actually happens to wear a cape. Nowhere
is this more evident than in the lengthy account of a bachelor-party, a sequence
so satiated with machismo that one suspects it sprang directly from the
author's own unresolved issues with adolescence.
And yet, as
with most books, hidden in the clutter of verbiage, whether artfully crafted or
carelessly strewn, there are some nuggets worthy of contemplation. Toward the
end of the novel, Arn Magnusson reflects over his time as a knight templar and
about the devastating defeat that the crusaders suffered at the hands of Sultan
Saladin. He seeks some divined message in the humiliation, a lesson that God intended
for him and the other survivors. And he does this with the most supremely
brainwashed mind.
Here stands
a warrior, a sword consecrated by holy water and pledged to the service of God
by his side. A man who for twenty laborious years has risked life and limb to
guard the resting place of the one he considers to be the Son of God. He has
knelt in prayer, imploring God’s help in his quest to reclaim the Holy land,
all the while being keenly aware how his foes, no less fervently, pray to their
God for the same favour. And yet, in the face of unequivocal defeat, he ponders
not whether his cause was just or his belief misguided, but instead what subtle
knowledge God intends him to discern. This scene provides us with a stark
meditation on the nature of fanaticism. It is a lesson, possibly inadvertently,
about the maddening resilience of single-mindedness and the inherent futility
of reasoning with those who cannot, or will not, entertain doubt.
Having
ploughed through Jan Guillou’s entire trilogy, the lasting impression is mixed.
Jan Guillou certainly is no Sir Walter Scott. Nor is he a Ken Follett or even a
Frans G Bengtsson. He is definitely a far cry from Umberto Eco and the
intellectual labyrinths emanating from the Italian’s prolific pen. Yet, it is
not in the art of storytelling that Jan Guillou falters. His shortcomings lie
instead in the fragments of the tale he chooses to dwell upon. Guillou deserves
recognition for his bold excursion into the pre-Gustav Vasa era, a period which
most Swedes know scarcely anything about. I also enjoy the well-researched
albeit artistically tailored description of the medieval environment, the
historical figures, places, and the political games. Yet, the characters he
breathes into being remain stubbornly two-dimensional and would belong on the
panels of a comic book rather than the pages of serious literature, and the
story line is sometimes far too juvenile to befit a 55-year-old writer, or
indeed, his 48-year-old reader.
