Meik Wiking’s The Little Book of Hygge: The Danish Way to Live Well is the fourth title on the Danish phenomenon of hygge which I have read to date. I adore the whole concept, and thought that snuggling down with this on a Sunday evening when I felt unwell would be rather comforting; it was.
Wiking works at the Happiness Research Institute in Denmark, an independent think-tank ‘focusing on well-being, happiness and quality of life’, which aims to ‘work towards improving the quality of life of citizens across the world’. Essentially, Wiking looks into what makes us happy. In his book, he has written extensively about different happiness surveys, and how hygge contributes to the Danes being consistently voted the happiest nation on earth.
I read one review of The Little Book of Hygge which writes that it adds little to the slew of existing books. I thought that I would challenge this viewpoint, which I found to be false, by formulating a list of all of the things about hygge that Wiking has taught me. Here goes…
- The literal translation of the Danish for candle, levende lys, means ‘living lights’ (which is just delightful).
- 28% of Danes light candles every day.
- Only 47% of Danes believe that hygge can be translated into other languages and societies.
- The Danes believe that autumn is the most hyggelig season.
- Tokka is the word for a large herd of reindeer in Finnish. (Not necessarily a fact about hygge, I know, but linguistically interesting nonetheless; it has no parallels in other languages).
- Sondagshygge is hygge specific to Sundays; it revolves around ‘having a slow day with tea, books, music, blankets and perhaps the occasional walk if things go crazy’. (My favourite kind of day, no less).
- Per head, Danes eat 8.2 kilograms of sweets annually; this is second only to Finland, and twice the European average.
- In Danish fashion, a ‘scarf is a must’.
- Braised pigs’ cheeks, and ‘twisting bread’, for which there are recipes here, sound really tasty.
The Little Book of Hygge is very soothing, and includes many lists of ways in which hygge can be incorporated into any life. The illustrations and photographs are a really nice touch, and the whole has been peppered with interesting charts and facts. The ‘hygge dictionary’ is also lovely, and the structure, which is broken into different chapters following such things as ‘Food and Drink’ and ‘Clothing’, works marvellously. The idea of making a hygge survival kit is absolutely darling. In all, I would say that Wiking does add to the concept of hygge, and the books which already exist about it; it would be a lovely addition to any bookshelf, or an incredibly thoughtful gift for a dear friend.
I was supposed to be reading established poet and non-fiction author Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts for a book club I’m a member of, but unable as I was to find a copy, I plumped for The Red Parts: Autobiography of a Trial instead. This piece of extended non-fiction, which deals with the aftermath of her aunt’s unsolved murder in the late sixties, and new evidence pointing to her killer, was first published in 2007. Of all of Nelson’s books, this was the one which appealed to me the most.
The blurb piqued my interest immediately when browsing for Nelson’s books on my local library catalogue. It reads: ‘After asking for a lift to her hometown for spring break, Jane Mixer, a first-year law student at the University of Michigan, was brutally murdered in 1969; her body was found the next day, a few miles away from campus.’ Jane was shot twice in the head, and then ‘strangled viciously with a stocking that did not belong to her’. Nelson, whose aunt was killed before she was born, uses The Red Parts to trace her aunt’s death, as well as the trial which took place thirty-five years afterwards. Jane’s case was reopened in 2004 ‘after a DNA match identified a new suspect, who would soon be arrested and tried.’
‘Resurrecting her interior world during the trial – in all its horror, grief, obsession, recklessness, scepticism and downright confusion – Maggie Nelson has produced a work of profound integrity and, in its subtle indeterminacy, deadly moral precision.’ The Red Parts has been hailed by various critics as ‘remarkable’, ‘Didion-esque’, and a ‘darkly intelligent page-turner’, which gives ‘the sense that the writer is writing for her life’, as well as Jane’s.
Within her book, Nelson is candid from the very beginning. She writes of the process of putting such a painful familial past down on paper, and how the trial and its evidence impacted upon her, her sister, and her mother, Jane’s elder sister. In her preface, Nelson calls the book ‘a peculiar, pressurized meditation on time’s relation to violence’. She goes on to say: ‘One aim I had while writing was to allow the events of the trial, the events of my childhood, the events of Jane’s murder, and the act of writing to share a single spatial and temporal moment.’
Initially, police attributed Jane’s murder to a man who had killed many other young girls in what were collectively called the ‘Michigan Murders’. The new evidence found, however, attributed her murder to someone else entirely, a retired nurse. When Nelson sees him on trial, she writes: ‘I feel disoriented too. Where I imagined I might find the “face of evil,” I am finding the face of Elmer Fudd.’ She goes on to describe the difficulty which she has in coming to terms with what he may have done: ‘I watch the light and I watch his hands and I try to imagine them around the trigger of a gun, I try to imagine them strangling someone. Strangling Jane. I know this kind of imagining is useless and awful. I wonder how I’d feel if I imagined it over and over again and later found out that he didn’t do it.’
The Red Parts is very brave and directly honest; it is as objective as it can be, and whilst emotional at times, it does not read – as one imagines it so easily could have done – as a piece of overblown melodrama on the part of the family. She talks openly about all of the grief in her life, from her father’s death, to seeing her boyfriend overdose more than once. The Red Parts is a multilayered and well thought through work, which merges biography and autobiography in a seamless and interesting manner. Nelson’s writing is engaging from the very beginning, and is sure to appeal to anyone who has enjoyed the likes of Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood.
My interest in Naomi Alderman’s The Power was piqued after it won this year’s Bailey’s Women’s Prize for Fiction. With regard to her other fiction, I had only read Alderman’s The Lessons beforehand; I did this three or so weeks before the announcement of the Bailey’s Prize. I very much enjoyed it – almost loved it, in fact. This, twinned with the hype around the title, made me want to read The Power sooner rather than later. The novel has been deservedly hyped, it must be said. Margaret Atwood calls the novel ‘Electrifying!’, and the New Statesman deems it a ‘thrilling, spark-throwing version of the future detonates almost everything that seems normal about gender in the present.’ The Guardian calls it ‘an instant classic’, and Grazia writes of it as ‘The Handmaid’s Tale for the Gone Girl generation.’
Comparisons to The Handmaid’s Tale are too obvious, and have been done; needless to say, The Power is probably closest to it in terms of the dystopian books which I’ve read to date. I would also suggest that those who have enjoyed The Natural Way of Things by Charlotte Wood pick it up, as similarities can be drawn between the two. It also, perhaps strangely, reminded me of Roald Dahl’s The Twits and The Magic Finger; you may well see what I mean when you’ve read it.
The novel’s blurb is immediately enticing: ‘All over the world women are discovering they have the power. With a flick of the fingers they can inflict terrible pain – even death. Suddenly, every man on the planet finds they’ve lost control.’ The Power is supposed to have been written by an author named Neil Adam Armon, who has been looking into the history of this mysterious, dangerous power which women are found to have possessed for centuries. Neil is rather a dry historian, but has decided to present something a little different in his newest book: ‘… What I’ve done here is a sort of hybrid piece, something that I hope will appeal more to ordinary people. Not quite history, not quite a novel. A sort of ‘novelization’ of what archaeologists agree is the most plausible narrative.’ Neil introduces the story in a series of letters to Naomi.
The Power opens in the following way: ‘The shape of power is always the same; it is the shape of a tree. Root to tip, central trunk branching and re-branching, spreading wider in ever-thinner, searching fingers. The shape of power is the outline of a living thing straining outward, sending its fine tendrils a little further, and a little further yet.’ This quote is attributed to ‘The Book of Eve’ from a kind of inverse Bible. In fact, The Power comes across as a reversed history, with many fantastical elements, and a worldwide, almost epidemic scale, thrown in.
The first character whom we meet is Roxy, who discovers that she has the Power after two men hurt her mother: ‘Roxy feels the thing like pins and needles along her arms. Like needle-pricks of light from her spine to her collarbone, from her throat to her elbows, wrists, to the pads of her fingers. She’s glittering, inside.’ Roxy becomes one of the youngest, and one of the first, to have the Power. Other stories and cases are soon outed upon the Internet, with videos appearing on YouTube.
The Power, in all, follows four different characters, three of whom have the Power, and one of whom, Tunde, is exploiting it in a way, shooting footage and selling it to newspapers, before he becomes a correspondent for CNN. These characters live in destinations as far-flung as Wisconsin and Moldova, and their paths cross and converge as the novel goes on.
The structure of the novel works on a kind of countdown basis. At the beginning of the story, there are ‘Ten years to go’, then nine, then eight. Rather than ensure that the hierarchical world power structure is destroyed, there soon evolves a hierarchy between those who have the Power; there are leaders and minions.
This seemed like a very good time in history for Alderman to publish such a novel; I think we all need to know that the future can be markedly different in all manner of surprising ways. The Power provokes so much thought, and has a storyline which cannot be easily forgotten. The Power is a clever book, but it does rely a little too much upon religion and bureaucracy; in fact, these draw attention away from the main thread of the novel. I was not personally keen on the ‘mixed media’ which is spattered throughout the story, with its diagrams and ‘extracts’ taken from chatrooms and other webpages. The fantastic element of The Power has been well thought through, but I found it too drawn out in places, and even got a little bored of it toward the middle. I will say that The Power, in my opinion, is nowhere near as compelling as The Lessons, but it does make some interesting comments upon the modern world, and is worth reading for this alone.
Albert Camus’ debut novel, The Stranger, was first published in its original French in 1942, and in its first English translation in 1946. Its blurb highlights the fact that it has had ‘a profound impact on millions of American readers’; one can only imagine that the same could also be said for readers of other nationalities.
In The Stranger, Camus presents the story of ‘an ordinary man who unwittingly gets drawn into a senseless murder on a sundrenched Algerian beach’. The author’s intention was to explore what he termed ‘the nakedness of man faced with the absurd’. The translator, Matthew Ward, notes in his introduction that ‘The Stranger demanded of Camus the creation of a style at once literary and profoundly popular, an artistic sleight of hand that would make the complexities of a man’s life appear simple’.
The Stranger opens in the following, rather detached, manner: ‘Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know. I got a telegram from home. “Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours.” That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.’ The voice of the protagonist, Meursault, is used throughout. He is an interesting character, both in terms of his traits and his view of the world. He immediately travels to another place in Algeria, the country in which he lives, to keep vigil over his mother’s body until her funeral. During this sensitive time, he converses with the caretaker: ‘… he told me he had lived in Paris and that he had found it hard to forget it. In Paris they kept vigil over the body for three, sometimes four days. But here you barely have time to get used to the idea before you have to start running after the hearse.’
There are many themes at play here, from loss and grief, to identity and belonging. Meursault is not at all sensitive, and whilst his character alters along the way, following first his mother’s death, and then the murder he is blamed for, there is little by way of his innermost feelings revealed to the reader. I am sure that some more critical readings point to his falling somewhere upon the Autism spectrum, due to his inability to connect with sad situations, and with his own grief.
With regard to demonstrating the setting particularly, Camus shows real strength; the simplicity with regard to his descriptions of Algeria makes it all the more striking and vivid: ‘I had the whole sky in my eyes and it was blue and gold’, and ‘The street lamps were making the pavement glisten, and the light from the streetcars would glint off someone’s shiny hair, or off a smile or a silver bracelet’ are two of my favourite examples. Camus’ use of two distinct sections, ‘Before’ and ‘After’, was simple yet effective.
Ward justifies his translation choices in the following way: ‘In addition to giving the book a more “American” quality, I have also attempted to venture farther into the letter of Camus’ novel, to capture what he said and how he said it, not what he meant’. This is perhaps the widest admission of a translator adapting the text to convey what they want to, rather than what the author intended, that I have come across in my Reading the World Project thus far. Stylistically, The Stranger is very easy to read. As demonstrated in the introduction, the sentences are rather short throughout, and have very little complexity. As this engaging volume runs to just 123 pages, it is the perfect tome with which to introduce yourself to Camus’ work, and a great book to snuggle up with if you have a free afternoon.
Take Courage: Anne Bronte and the Art of Life by Samantha Ellis ****
I am, and always have been, a huge fan of Anne Bronte, and when I first heard about Samantha Ellis’ focused biography of her life, I was rather excited. I found Take Courage absorbing, and quite enjoyed the relatively casual writing style which the biography takes. Ellis’ account is far-reaching, and includes a lot of interesting critique about her prose and poetry, as well as thorough studies of each of her siblings, and her parents. The way in which chapters follow different figures, from Branwell and Emily, to the Brontes’ housekeeper, Tabby, is effective.
Take Courage is well written on the whole, although it did feel a little too colloquial at times. I did, however, like the way in which Ellis added her own personal story alongside Anne’s, giving a more personal dimension to the whole. Take Courage is well thought out and enjoyable, and awfully touching, particularly toward the end.
Falling Slowly by Anita Brookner ***
There is a slight detachment at play within Anita Brookner’s Falling Slowly. The plot is rather drawn out, and it did not feel as though there were enough occurrences or character developments here to sustain a novel of this length. Very little happened, even in comparison to other, slower books of Brookner’s. The characters never really came to life; I found them unrealistic, particularly toward the end of the book. The relationships drawn between them too are very bizarre, and not at all what I was expecting. Although Falling Slowly follows similar conventions to some of Brookner’s other books, I did not enjoy it anywhere near as much. Whilst it is not badly written, the dialogue feels awfully dated, and it is perhaps therefore more of a 2.5 star read than a 3.