THE ROAD TO JERUSALEM

Author: Jan Guillou
Year: 1998
Publisher: Piratförlaget
Language: Swedish

Jan Guillou stands as one of Sweden’s most prominent authors of action literature, whilst also being a renowned, and oftentimes controversial, columnist with radically left-leaning political views. His most celebrated work, which catapulted him to literary prominence in Sweden during the 1970s, is perhaps the autobiographical novel "The Evil" which lays bare his supposedly harrowing experiences as a youth of modest origins amidst the privileged confines of a prestigious private school. Guillou's stature as a writer of action was ultimately solidified with the overwhelming success of his Coq Rouge-series in the 1980s and 1990s, wherein he recounts the daring exploits of a Swedish nobleman and military intelligence officer.

Guillou has since then proven himself to be a prolific writer, delighting in the exploration various eras and frequently displaying a bias to book series about his favourite protagonists. Among thsese is the medieval knight Arn Magnusson of Arnäs hailing from West Gothland in what would later become part of the unified kingdom of the Swedes and the Geats, today simply known as Sweden. The first volume of a series of three concerning Arn is entitled “Vägen till Jerusalem” (“The Road to Jerusalem”).

Arn, the second son of the head of one of the most illustrious families in West Gothland, is offered to a local monastery as a child, a token of gratitude by his parents to God for sparing his life in what ought to have been a fatal accident. Growing up among the Benedictine monks, Arn is immersed in their teachings. Beyond the expected studies of the Bible, philosophy, Latin, and geometry, he also gains knowledge in biology, medicine, engineering, and architecture. Most significantly, one monk, once a Knight Templar, instructs him in the arts of horsemanship, swordsmanship, and archery. To the astonishment of the Benedictines, and unbeknownst to himself, Arn matures into a formidable fighter, a knight without equal in the Nordics. His destiny is irrevocably set when, upon reaching adulthood, he is sent forth from the monastery's walls to seek God’s purpose in the wider world.

It is always a delight to read well-researched historical fiction, and "Vägen till Jerusalem" is indubitably founded upon solid historical study. The political struggle for power and the initial steps towards the unification of the Western and Eastern Geats and the Swedes are portrayed with great accuracy. Fictitious characters are interwoven seamlessly with authentic historical figures, although Guillou permits himself some artistic license on occasion. The storyline proves compelling, and the language is both brisk and straightforward. Mr. Guillou skilfully employs his journalistic prowess to captivate the reader and sustain their interest throughout.

Having said that, the downside of Guillou’s narration technique is a certain lack of depth in the storytelling. The characters’ actions appear to bear more significance to the story, and indeed the author, than to the characters themselves. Whenever an action or a word risks being ambiguous, Guillou is quickly there with his pen to ensure that the reader comprehends the underlying intention. Furthermore, every character is either impeccably virtuous or completely reprehensible. They are either angelic or satanic. There is no middle ground. All of this, in total, renders Guillou’s world-building somewhat flat and, to speak candidly, reveals many of the unmistakable signs of a juvenile writing style.

“Vägen till Jerusalem” is certainly not a great work of art and due to the aforementioned shortcomings, to a degree misses the mark as entertainment, too. While I appreciate the historical setting and Guillou’s choice to situate the narrative in an era of Swedish history that is largely ignored by the Swedish educational system and thus widely underexplored by most Swedes, I do hope that he will allow both the story and the characters to gain complexity in the subsequent volumes of this trilogy.   

 

THESE HAPPY YEARS

Author: Agnes von Krusenstjerna
Year: 2010 (1937)
Publisher: Albert Bonniers förlag
Language: Swedish

In the third instalment of Agnes von Krusenstjerna’s tetralogy, the main protagonist, Viveka, enters her teenage years and has her first brush with desire for the opposite gender. She had, of course, experienced puppy love in the preceding books, most notably with her aloof cousin Donald, but as she begins to mature, her capacity to love and feel desire also develops. This will have significant ramification for Viveka’s further choices. 

In “Dessa lyckliga år” (“These Happy Years”), Viveka’s father retires from his esteemed career as an army colonel necessitating the family’s departure from the spacious provincial residence in favour of a modest flat in central Stockholm. Sofia, Viveka’s mother, who is never too shy to allow her own desires eclipse any concern for her daughter’s needs, assigns a scruffy corner in one of the few and narrow rooms to Viveka, allowing her to fashion a much-desired enfilade, a pitiable attempt to maintain a semblance of upper-class elegance when entertaining friends and acquaintances. The retired colonel eventually secures a position as an auditor with a prominent industrial firm owned by one of his distant acquaintances. The additional income derived from this position is scarcely sufficient to keep the family afloat in the lowest levels of the urban aristocracy.

The Lagercrona-family’s continuous struggle, and failure, to preserve an appearance of affluence is further exacerbated during Viveka’s early teenage years.  She is not only relentlessly scrutinised by members of considerably richer branches of the family, but she is also thrust into the unfamiliar world of city life with its obscure rules and expectations. This new environment presents a host of challenges, compelling Viveka to navigate the intricate social minefield of urban society while under the critical gaze of her more prosperous kin.

As Viveka grows older and takes her first steps in what is supposed to be the social life of a young girl from the nobility, the adverse effects of her upbringing under an egotistic and emotionally volatile mother start to become increasingly apparent. Viveka, beset by profound insecurity and low self-esteem, finds every social encounter to be an emotional rollercoaster. She falls in love with alarming ease yet considers herself too inconsequential to even deserve to be spoken to. She is frightened and horrified by each new situation or each new acquaintance. She is plagued by doubt about her clothes, her looks, her voice, her opinions, her name, and indeed her very existence. Every action becomes a daunting ordeal, every encounter a battlefield, every acquaintance a threat, every word a barbed arrow to her heart. In her distress, Viveka tries to hide, she weeps, and she is sick to her stomach throughout most of this novel.

The exaggerated emotional reactions would border on the tiresome, were it not for the realisation that the narrator is an emotionally deeply disturbed individual. Short of the self-destructive behaviour, Viveka exhibits signs of what modern psychiatry might consider Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder (EUPD), including erratic emotional responses to seemingly insignificant stimuli, crippling anxiety, and extreme self-doubt. The notable absence of self-destructive behaviour and self-harm can potentially be attributed to her quasi-paralytic inability to act at all, a constant state of pacification and fear that would align with the diagnosis. Indeed, a chaotic or traumatic childhood is cited in the medical literature as the primary cause of this disorder.  

Krusenstjerna’s portrayal of the floundering social class and the detrimental individual effect it had on its members is a triumph of literary accomplishment and an important historical document. Her decision to observe this decline through the eyes of a child who matures with time is particularly compelling. By following Viveka across the first three parts of this tetralogy, we have so far got to see the inevitable expiration of the aristocracy through the eyes of a child, an adolescent, and a young adult respectively, all of which are perspectives that contribute uniquely to the depth and nuance of the total picture.

It was hinted in the prologue to the first book “Fattigadel” (see my review of March 2024) that Viveka’s life would not end happily. By the time the events in “Dessa lyckliga år” unfold, it becomes evident that the essential tools for navigating any stratum of society, be it the aristocracy, the bourgeoisie, or the proletariat, have been systematically denied to her throughout her upbringing. Her mother, with her own capricious motives, but also her brothers and her extended family played a pivotal role in this depravation. Viveka von Lagercrona is a personal tragedy waiting to happen. I am intrigued by how Krusenstjerna will weave these threads together in the fourth and final book. Stay tuned.

 

UNDER THE NORTH STAR - III

Author: Väinö Linna
Year: 1988 (1962)
Publisher: Wahlström & Widstrand
Language: Swedish (Translator N-B Stormbom) 

Yea, drive us together with scourges,
and bluest spring shall bud.
You smile, my people, but with stiff features,
and sings, but without hope.*

Verner von Heidenstam’s famous poem “Invocation and Pledge” from 1899 reflects upon a Sweden basking in its own comfortable complacency at the turn of the century. With the discerning eye of a poet, Heidenstam contends that only through the bitter taste of adversity might the Swedish people awaken and re-discover the sweetness of unity, patriotism, and freedom. In the same manner that an individual having faced a near-death experience comes to value life more deeply, Heidenstam aspires for an existential challenge to invigorate the Swedish nation with a newfound strength and energy.

It was, of course, a trifle for a nobleman such as Verner von Heidenstam to recline in his gilded upper-class bubble and bemoan the lack of sufficient trials for his less fortunate countrymen. Sweden in the early 20th century was by no means overflowing with riches. Poverty in the wake of rapid industrialisation and urbanisation was widespread, infant mortality was around ten percent, and famine and diseases ravaged many parts of the kingdom. Between the years 1850 and 1920 over 1.5 million Swedes, driven by hunger and despair, sought solace and sustenance across the Atlantic in North America.

Even so, no Nordic nation has experienced a transformation more brutal and profound than that of the Finns. After their independence from Russia following the First World War, a brief but savage civil war between the landowning and capitalist elite on the one side and the landless and the proletariat on the other (see my review of Linna from April 2024) ensued. The war, although short-lived, inflicted deep wounds upon Finnish society. Wounds that would prevail until the Finnish people was ‘driven together with the scourges’ of the Second World War.

Individuals who had once grown up together only to later find themselves locked in blind rage and mortal combat, now stood shoulder to shoulder in the trenches defending Finland from the Soviet onslaught in 1939. Communists and Nazis fighting side by side, presenting the Red Army with an unexpected and formidable resilience.

During the interbellum years, progress did not omit Finland. Both men and women were granted the right to vote, crofters were allowed to acquire the land they worked, technology opened up for new business opportunities and improved productivity. The world changed and Finland changed with it.

Väinö Linna in the final instalment of his trilogy “Under the North Star” captures this transformative process with unparallelled sublimity. Despite the horrendous memories of the civil war and the harrowing loss of loved ones at the hands of their fellow countrymen, life slowly finds a new equilibrium. Amidst an atmosphere thick with suspicion, scorn, and silent resistance, a fragile tranquillity engulfs the small town. However, it is the cataclysm of the Second World War that ultimately serves as the catalyst for the national healing.

With “Söner av ett folk”, Väinö Linna ties his magnum opus together in the most spectacular way and sends his beloved Finland off into the future as a fatigued but united, confident, and free nation. This literary masterpiece should be mandatory reading for all Nordic school children and the literature of choice for anyone who values an exquisitely crafted narrative featuring vivid characters over some of the most troublesome and yet auspicious decades in Finland’s history. Putting this book down for the last time was like parting with a group of dear friends. I cannot recommend this trilogy enough.

*Shady, uncredited translation I found on the internet. Couldn't be bothered to make may own this time.

METRO 2033

Author: Dmitry Glukhovsky
Year: 2013 (2008)
Publisher: Ersatz 

Language: Swedish (Translator Ola Wallin) 

Whenever I find myself amidst the bustling allure of Moscow, I invariably check in at the same hotel in Tverskaya-Yamskaya Road, a mere two-minute walk from the Belorusskaya metro station. If one exits the hotel through its rear gate, one will find a shortcut leading to a side entrance of the station, right opposite of an unassuming white church contrasting against the otherwhile grey concrete architecture. This particular station is strategically convenient, nestled as it is adjacent to Belorussky vokzal where the airport train from Sheremetyevo Airport stops. Moreover, it straddles both the circle line and the direct line to Tverskaya and Teatralnaya stations, both of which are situated in the heart of the city and connect to several other metro lines. Some of the most iconic Moscow metro stations, such as Komsomolskaya and Mayakovskaya, can be reached from Belorusskaya without the trouble of changing trains.

With this experience and more from Moscow, I jumped eagerly into Dmitry Glukhovsky’s sensational novel “Metro 2033”. This dystopia envisions a near future in which the world is reeling from a nuclear war that has annihilated most civilisations and relegated whatever shards of humanity that remain to a subterranean existence. In Moscow, the fortunate few that have survived have settled in the winding labyrinths of the metro system, each station becoming a microcosm of society, constituting its own community with its own government and lifestyle. Some stations have come together to form alliances, others are ensnared in warfare.

The main character, Artyom, lives with his foster father in one of the fringe stations at the periphery of the inhabited part of the metro. His station is routinely attacked by mysterious creatures that ostensibly inhabit the desolate surface. To find a way to vanquish these murderous intruders once and for all, Artyom is assigned the secret task of delivering a vital message to a high-ranking military officer stationed at a remote part of the metro. And so, the quest begins.

There is a lot to like in this novel. The story’s premise is downright superb and Glukhovsky’s captivating prose quickly envelops the reader and thrusts them helplessly into the dimly lit tunnels of the underground. The milieu is exquisitely portrayed, conjuring vivid images of the claustrophobic environments and the constant threat of hostile human factions, slaughterous beasts and mutants, toxic gases, and deadly radiation. The sense of peril is omnipresent, palpable, and intense.

The storyline itself is simple but functional, dutifully mirroring the archetypal framework of most fantasy novels. There is the unlikely hero, the journey, the secret message or sacred item, the friends and foes the hero meets on his path, and the final resolution in the end. All staple ingredients of the genre.

Yet, the novel is not without some notable deficiencies. First of all, Artyom remains a rather uninspiring figure throughout the book. His character development is virtually non-existent, rendering it increasingly difficult for the reader to remain invested in his fortunes. Moreover, many of the situations he encounters on his journey seem to contribute little to the advancement of the plot. Rarely does one encounter has any effect on subsequent events and Artyom is rescued from his predicaments by what can best be described as deus ex machina miracles more often than by his own craft or any experience he might have gathered from his travels.

The reason for this is in fact rather straightforward. Glukhovsky has never been shy to publicly advertise his political views* and in “Metro 2033”, his protagonist becomes a vehicle for his opinions. On his journey, Artyom happens upon a multitude of political, religious, and philosophical interest groups, each judged by their actions toward him and each other. The purpose of each episode is to scrutinise the group or sect in itself through the prism of Glukhovsky’s political preferences, rather than to incorporate it into a cohesive string of a forward-moving narrative.

A more perplexing observation is the near total absence of women in Glukhovsky’s underground world. Besides a few fleeting references to Artyom’s deceased mother, there is no mention of any female character of consequence. There are no women in Artyom’s environment at his home station. He encounters no women on his mission. Neither Artyom nor any of the men he meets harbours any romantic or even crudely carnal attraction toward the opposite sex. There is not one single dialogue between a man and a woman except for Artyom’s foster father’s memory of his brief exchange with Artyom’s mother as she implored him to safeguard her baby in her moment of death. On a whole, this completely male-centric perspective dents the believability of the world that Dmitry Glukhovsky creates for the reader.

Although “Metro 2033” cannot pretend to the highest echelons of literary dystopias occupied by such giants as Karin Boye’s “Kallocain” (see my review from June 2021) or Ray Bradbury’s “Fahrenheit 451” (see my review from March 2023) it remains an undeniably immersive read. Despite the aforementioned reservations, Glukhovsky’s aptitude as a writer is undisputable. The atmosphere, the looming danger, the flickering lights fighting a futile battle against the darkness of the brooding tunnels, and the subtle blurring of the boundaries between realty, dream, memory, and madness are all masterfully crafted and pull the reader mercilessly into the menacing depths of the Muscovite underground.

 

*In fact, at the time of writing this, he lives in exile as he is wanted by Putin’s fascist regime for expressing his disgust with Russia’s invasion of Ukraine.

PARADISO

Author: Dante Alighieri
Year: 1968 (1321)
Publisher: Rabén & Sjögren
Language: Swedish (Translator Aline Pipping)

Having traversed the tear-filled mountain of purgatory and imbibed the truths of salvation, Dante is finally ready to see paradise. In the culminating part of the Divine Comedy, “Paradiset” (“Paradiso”), Dante is allowed to journey among the stars and the planets to the sanctified domain of the eternally blessed. His companion in the last two books, the poet Virgil, now has to remain behind relinquishing custody of the wanderer to Beatrice, Dante’s one and only true love and the paragon of earthly purity. Beatrice is not the wise and experienced cicerone of her own power like Virgil had been in the past. Rather, by her angelic innocence she channels all the virtues of a saint through the love of God, including beatific vision and complete comprehension. With a gentle hand, she picks up the mantle where Virgil’s wisdom no longer suffices, and illuminates Dante’s path with the ethereal light of heavenly guidance.

In contrast to the circles or spheres in hell and purgatory, paradise is organised among the celestial bodies known to Dante in his time. Beginning with the moon and then travelling from one planet to the next, Dante is faced with philosophical and exegetic conundrums which he discusses with various denizens of this world and sometimes directly with Beatrice. His conversations have been scrutinised and dissected countless of times through each era following its creation, rendering any attempt on my part to explain it futile. “Paradiset” is famously complex and metaphysical, often balancing on the brink of the incomprehensible. The poetry is more entangled and the symbolism more abstract and impenetrable than in the preceding two books. But in all of this, Dante brings forth some intriguing doctrinal reflections.

In Canto 7, he asks Beatrice why Jesus had to endure the agony of the cross when God in all his might could have chosen any other method to reconcile with His creation. The answer that Dante arrives at appears to respond to St Anshelm’s meditations on the same issue in his book Cur Deus Homo from two centuries prior. Whereas Anshelm frames the dilemma as “either punishment or sacrifice”, Dante proposes “either forgiveness or sacrifice” and then fuses them together to an argument where we as humans are too bankrupt to offer satisfaction but too proud to seek forgiveness. God does both of that for us, Dante says, out of his love for us by offering himself as sacrifice in the name of forgiveness.

Canto 13 struck a particular chord with me as it discusses the reasons why some humans, although being the fruit from the same tree, do not enjoy the same intellectual capacity as others.

For very low among the fools is he                 
Who affirms without distinction, or denies,
As well in one as in the other case;

Because it happens that full often bends
Current opinion in the false direction,
And then the feelings bind the intellect.

Far more than uselessly he leaves the shore,
(Since he returneth not the same he went,)
Who fishes for the truth, and has no skill*

Dante knew human nature well and he would probably not be surprised by the lamentable state of human comprehension seven centuries hence. The first verse in the quote decries the lack of critical thinking, the second speaks of how emotions are allowed to trump facts and logic, and the third indicts the schooling system for having failed to equip the citizens with the appropriate tools and skillsets to discern truth from deception. Dante would probably feel oddly at home amidst the cacophony of 21 century social media which has perversely elevated all the above embarrassments to virtues of the imbecilic majority.  

On a more positive note, Canto 25 is what can best be described as the canto of hope. It stands to reason that Inferno would be a place where there is no hope. The souls here have removed themselves eternally from God’s face, choosing instead to wallow in the putrid swamps of their own perpetual misery. Purgatorio, by contrast, is filled with patience and trust rather than hope as every soul is assured admission to paradise once they have been properly prepared. Paradise, at last, is where all hope comes to fruition. Hope, after all, can only be relevant where there is a disunion between a desired position and the status quo. The souls that have already entered here thus have no more need for hope, enjoying already their eternal reward. So, the only place for hope seems to be earthly life.

And yet, Dante chose to locate his canto about hope in Paradise. My personal interpretation leans toward the suggestion that it is Dante’s own hope that serves as the vantage point for this meditation. The canto opens with Dante expressing his fervent wish to one day return to his native Florence, whence he had been expelled into exile by his political adversaries. This is the hope of a living man, a mere a visitor to paradise. Against this backdrop, Dante may intellectually probe the nature of hope. The choice of doing so in paradise may be connected to paradise being the desire of every true Christian and only through its union with faith and love can hope lead to salvation, and only then becoming meaningful.

A general observation can be made about the tone Dante chooses to employ in each part of the Divine Comedy. In Inferno (see my review from February 2024) the graphic portrayal of the damned souls’ torture and torment and the meticulous depiction of their wickedness and Satan’s malevolence are strikingly vivid. In Purgatorio (see my review from March 2024), the narrative shifts to a poignant exposition of the souls’ grief and remorse, alongside the hardship that they have to endure in order to cleanse themselves of their earthly sins. “Paradiset”, however, departs from this visceral imagery. We are not treated to visual representations of God’s glory, the eternal bliss or sublime light. These elements all subtly suggested but never explored. Instead, Dante opts for an intellectual and philosophical lecture on Christian ethics and abstract musings on the theoretical benevolence of God.

Given Dante’s brilliance as a poet, I am compelled to conclude that this difference is not by choice but by necessity. Could it be that the Western tradition has so richly cultivated the language, symbols, and imagery to depict evil, suffering, torture, and regret, yet tragically neglected to develop corresponding linguistic and cultural tools to convey harmony, bliss, happiness, and splendour befitting paradise? If so, such a linguistic impoverishment in the face of celestial glory would speak volumes about our priorities and limitations as a civilization. Perhaps we are simply better prepared for Inferno than we will ever be for Paradise. After all, we can reach the former on our own merit, but require God's intervention to enter the latter. 

"Paradiso" proved to be unequivocally the most challenging of the trilogy, demanding a profound acquaintance with medieval politics, philosophy, and symbolism. It necessitated an investment of time, concentration, and dedication. Nevertheless, amidst these demands, it remains an eminently rewarding endeavour, its treasures undiminished by the troubles of its pursuit.

*The Divine Comedy, Translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Ticknor and Fields, Boston, 1867

THE SHADOW BETWEEN THE TREES

Author: Agnes von Krusenstjerna
Year: 2010 (1936)
Publisher: Albert Bonniers förlag
Language: Swedish

”Dunklet mellan träden” (”The Shadow between the Trees”) is the second book in Agnes von Krusenstjerna’s Pauper Nobility-series, a literary exploration into the vicissitudes of the fictional von Lagercrona lineage, largely based on Krusenstjerna’s own experiences. In the second instalment, she continues to explore the intricacies of Sweden’s aristocracy during the early 20^th century while the protagonist Viveka von Lagercrona gradually grows out of her childhood and enters her adolescent years with all the wonders and challenges that this entails.

Two themes emerge as particularly poignant: the tumultuous mother-daughter experience and the epic clash between age-old societal norms and the burgeoning realities of financial modernity. Two main events in this book that mark decisive milestones on her learning curve correspond to these themes. The first unfolds amidst the verdant confines of Igelfors, the ancestral summer abode of her maternal kin, under the auspices of the esteemed Baroness Rosenhielm. The other is her brother’s marriage to a commoner, an alliance that resonates with the seismic tremors of societal transformation.

Akin to her accomplishment in the first part of Pauper Nobility (see my review from March 2024), Krusenstjerna continues to delicately unfurl the complexities of Viveka’s relationship to her mother Sofia, wherein the latter’s veneer of mental instability and domineering demeanour veers towards a nuanced portrayal of virtual abuse, albeit she would herself balk at the mere suggestion. In her early school years, Viveka was understandably ill-equipped to properly evaluate her mother’s erratic behaviour and although she instinctively gravitated to her significantly more attentive father, she was only capable of glimpses of understanding of her mother’s many shortcomings. It was only through the prism of hindsight, articulated in the mature cadence of an adult voice, that Viveka was able to dress her apprehension in words. As she in this second volume enters adolescence, her wits and senses are sharpened and her powers of observation more acute and so she begins to grasp in real time the wealth of flaws besetting her maternal figure.

Nestled within the idyllic confines of Igelfors, Viveka for the first time has the opportunity to have a deep look at different hues of mother-child relationships each imbued with its own distinctive palette of complexity and power-struggle. The relationship between her aunt Eveline and Eveline’s mother, the Baroness; the relationship between her aunt-in-law Zora and her son Donald (who also becomes the object of Viveka’s first brush with the experience of unreciprocated love); the relationship between her cousin Aimee and her mother Eveline. She observes them all and unwittingly juxtaposes them with her own relationship with her mother Sofia.

In stark contrast to Viveka’s soul-searching, her brother, Sebastian, seems to be on top of the world making good progress in his career as a naval officer and writing letters back home to Sofia about each new love of his life. When he finally declares his betrothal to a sweet, devoted and kind daughter of a prosperous but simple tanner, his mother is shocked albeit not altogether surprised.

Despite the respected pedigree and the impeccable morals and unassailable performance of Viveka’s father as the commanding officer of the regiment, the von Lagercrona’s stressed financial standing has for some time cast a shadow over the family’s aspirations to the uppermost echelons of society. It seems that Sebastian identified this early in his life, and instead of settling for a diminutive position in high society, from a young age he instead forged alliances where his noble heritage would afford him primacy without the support of coin. His engagement to a girl of a humbler origins, into whose family he is welcomed as a prince, only stands to reason.

The divergent strategies with which the four von Lagercrona children negotiate the challenges of their brittle social position and the attendant pressures from familial and societal expectations constitute a compelling narrative. Krusenstjerna’s strength lies in her adept portrayals of these intricate social games brought to life by well-crafted and multifaceted characters. The underlying cultural and social turmoil that was about to bring an end to the aristocratic hegemony in favour of a capitalistic class system is well captured from a historical point of view. However, possibly depending on the background of the reader, the themes may not be equally relevant or appealing to all readers. To me, “Dunklet mellan träden” was a significantly more rewarding read than “Fattigadel”. I suspect that I was simply better prepared for it.

 

 

ONLY HUMAN

Author: Sylvain Neuvel
Year: 2019 (2018)
Publisher: Brombergs Bokförlag
Language: Swedish (Translator Peter Samuelsson)

”Bara människa” (”Only Human”) is the third and final tome of the Themis Files-series by the Canadian translator and writer Sylvain Neuvel. Unlike its two predecessors, important portions of the story are set on a planet other than Tellus and offer glimpses into the enigmatic society that constructed the powerful robot which, thousands of years later, came to wreak havoc here on earth.

The third part also introduces yet another tempo, adding to the variation already established between parts one and two. At times, “Bara människa” almost reads like a political treatise veiled in the guise of fiction, a scathing but unoriginal critique of the contemporary political landscape. Through the prism of the extraterrestrial society that we get to know after the robot Themis is summoned to return to her home planet in the opening of the book, Neuvel casts a probing light on what he presumably perceives as political failures in our time on our own planet in general, and perhaps North America in particular.

As a politically interested and active person, I followed his musings and the political dialogue with a certain degree of satisfaction.

SPOILER

My senses were particularly titillated by the revelation that some of the narrative unfolds among the shoals and islets of my home town south of Stockholm. Yet, this sequence struck a chord particularly close to my marrow bearing in mind Sweden’s recent accession to NATO and the associated concerns about our nation’s safety and territorial sanctity. In one scene, both poignant and perturbing, the Swedish navy officer Captain Lucas Nilsson is interrogated (Neuvel was kind enough to label File 2157 a “debriefing”) by a US army colonel. Upon questioning this audacious intrusion by foreigners on Swedish jurisdiction, the captain’s concerns are unceremoniously dismissed by the American who makes it perfectly clear that the chain of command is what the North American super power desires it to be in any given situation and depends very little on national sovereignty and established hierarchies. “Let’s not waste our time pretending that you have a choice”. A taste of what is to come for our armed forces, perhaps.

More lamentable still, is the sorrowful void of missed opportunity that lingers in Nevuel’s lack of interest in the planet that he has created and the customs and culture of the lifeforms that presumably inhabit it. The same lifeforms that are capable of a technology with a destruction power that could annihilate our entire civilisation in a matter of days.

Amidst the passage of several years, the protagonists are enveloped in an extraterrestrial environment never before seen by a human eye and yet squander the precious gift of curiosity in favour of petty squabbles and relational discord. It borders on travesty to plant Vincent Couture, a renowned linguist, on a different planet for years and fail to arm him with any interest at all in learning the local language. Instead, he chooses to impart the gift of broken English upon a native youth. In lieu of an epic odyssey of discovery we are left with the banality of bickering and self-pity. The only lasting impression from their years as celestial voyagers seems to be the memory of escape and the interpersonal dynamics between the persons themselves, sadly devoid of the transformative significance typically expected from such an otherworldly experience. Indeed, a squandered opportunity born of what seems to be the writer’s want of artistic ambition and a lacklustre visionary capacity.

Within this hollow discourse, one single vaguely shining pearl of meaningful knowledge emerges from the void. It is a cautionary tale woven from the strict ideal of non-involvement in the affairs of other civilisations and the hubris of attempting to rectify trespasses of the past. This part explains much of what transpired in the first two books whilst calling forth a host of ponderous queries. To what extent can a living creature, however intelligent, foresee the outcomes of their actions? What responsibility accrues to those who wield the sceptre of power?

Similar to the first two books, the narrative through interrogation recordings, diary entries, and secret files, continues to fail. In the end, it is obvious that the writer, careening toward the abyss of chaos, simply capitulated and allowed the last couple of chapters to fizzle out in the mundanity of happenstance encounters between people in shops and on the street while the headlines keep enumerating file numbers for no apparent reason. It has long become unclear who records these conversations, by what means, and for what purpose.

The Themis Files, alas, appears to me as a distinct disappointment, a discordant note in the in the symphony of excellence otherwise associated with the esteemed publisher Brombergs Förlag. One cannot help but wonder whether The Themis Files constituted an experiment or a gamble for Brombergs. Though I sincerely hope that the venture met with financial success, I cannot deny that it put a bit of a dent in my confidence in the brand.

On a positive note, I am pleased to take this opportunity to trumpet Lee Gibbons’ riveting cover art which captures, per chance, the splendour and mystery of what this trilogy could have been in the hands of a more skilled writer.