Dead Weight

Dead Weight / Hildur Knutsdottir
translated from the Icelandic by Mary Robinette Kowal
NY: Tor, 2026, c2025.
152 p.

This was a very unexpected read, a short novel that I found in my library system and grabbed because of WIT Month. It's an Icelandic story but an author who is new to me. 

Sometimes these random discoveries are just the thing! I was shocked and surprised by this one, all in the best ways. For something so short, it really packed a wallop, and the ending was on point. 

Unnur is a solitary woman, happy with her job and single life, but one day a cat appears in her apartment. She puts it out but it appears again. And as it turns out, it's a pregnant cat who gives birth to just one kitten in her bedroom. 

Unnur tries to do the right thing and find the owner, to return this cat who's decided that Unnur's home is a great place to settle into. She discovers that the owner is a young woman, Asta, who desperately wants her cat but thinks it would be safer with Unnur. Why? Asta's home life is unsettled, to say the least. 

Unnur doesn't have many friends, and Asta needs one - they start developing a kind of friendship, with Unnur feeling protective of both Asta and her cat. She starts to realize that Asta's boyfriend is a problem. And in her mind, problems need to be dealt with. 

I didn't predict this storyline, and was genuinely surprised by the plot as it progressed. I really liked the characters - the story is told from Unnur's perspective alone, we are inside her head for the whole book and so things surprise us as much as they do her. This has been called a "cathartic horror story" in publisher blurbs, and I think they got that spot on. The female rage driving the action, and Unnur's no-nonsense reactions feel believable and satisfying. I read this in one go - you can't stop, the story is plainly told but propulsive. It's definitely a one-sitting read. Recommended! 

Only a Little While Here

 

Only a Little While Here / Maria Ospina
trans. from the Spanish by Heather Cleary
NY: Scribner, 2026, c2023.
205 p.

I read Ospina's first collection of stories, Variations on the Body, in 2021 and was very impressed with it. So I was glad to see that this novel was available in time for this year's WIT Month reading. This is a quiet book, which I'd call a collection of linked short stories, more than a novel. But it was also a read that I appreciated and admired. 

It looks at the natural world, and how we are all one -- humans, bugs, birds, animals whether domestic or wild -- it's all one. It has a philosophical bent, a quiet narrative that is still honest and full of the natural violence of nature. Another element she investigates through this look at animal life is migration - what are borders, really, and who belongs where? Some of our characters are also migrants, and this plays into the overall shape of this book.

Each section opens with a selection of poems, excerpts etc from many writers who illustrate her points. The first, and where the title comes from, is a poem by the Aztec King Nezahualcóyotl.

“Truly do we live on earth?

Not forever on earth; only a little while here.

Although it be jade, it will be broken,

Although it be gold, it is crushed,

Although it be quetzal feather, it is torn asunder.

Not forever on earth; only a little while here.”

 

I've never seen this poem before, but it really hit me. It's such a beautiful way to describe the essence of our life here. This sets the tone for the rest of the book, in its sense that life is short and impermanent, and should be honoured and appreciated. 

The four sections of this book follow a migrating tanager, a beetle, a porcupine, and two dogs. And we see some of them as passing characters in the others' stories. The themes are carried through each story, with the characters slowly connecting for the reader, although the characters don't see it. But then that's kind of the point: we don't necessarily see the connections that exist in our daily lives, but we are all intimately connected, linked, a part of nature and everything we do is a part of the world. And as humans we often think that we are the only ones who live here and can do whatever we like without any thought of other lives. This book gently points that out and reminds us that we are also at the mercy of our planet. 

There is both melancholy and hope in many of the stories, and it's so beautiful -- you need to take this one slowly and savour it. If you love skilled writing and thoughtful reflection on life and impermanence, this is one for you. 

Sea Now: a Dutch disaster novel

 

Sea Now / Eva Meijer
trans. from the Dutch by Anne Thompson Melo
San Francisco, CA: Two Lines Press, 2025, c2022.
180 p.

I found this book in my library system -- I have not heard of it anywhere and was surprised by it. It's set in the Netherlands, where the sea has reached full tide but is not retreating. In fact it's getting higher and higher, by about a kilometer a day. 

This is downplayed for a while, until it becomes clear that Something is going on. The government reacts, finally, but too late to save low-lying areas. Internal refugees are everywhere, but then they have to keep moving -- some to Germany and France, some to family elsewhere, but the key is that they can not stay in the Netherlands. Even the big cities with all their art, culture, and population, are going to end up underwater. 

Despite this crisis event, the narrative itself is very calm and told quietly, almost bureaucratically, in the first half. The reactions of people vary, from those leaving immediately, to those who call themselves "The Remainers", and believe that the government info is all a conspiracy and they'll stay where they are. There is a group of young people who start up a protest group, "Sea Now!", which eventually peters out when the sea itself proves undeniably unstoppable. 

The second part of the book follows a few of the characters who decide to go back into the flooded areas to look for family members. They meet some Remainers who are living on tall rooftops and looking after themselves, and other stragglers on ships. They feel the strangeness of the sea and a city's infrastructure underwater. The new ocean seems to be a little more self-aware than before, too, with all sorts of odd and unusual things happening on this journey. 

It's a fascinating read, with an ending that I wasn't expecting. The rhythms of the story follow the relentless flow of the water, and the ending does too. There isn't a clear political message to the story -- to me it feels more like a quiet apocalypse, a change that humans aren't asked about or considered in. I couldn't stop reading it, and noted a few passages to copy out - the writing is reflective and yet slightly acerbic, a mix that caught me right away. This was a great accidental find, I would recommend it for the thoughtful reader who enjoys character and writing style; there is a lot to talk about here. 

Repetition by Vigdis Hjorth

Repetition / Vigdis Hjorth
trans. from the Norwegian by Charlotte Barslund
NY: Verso Books, 2026, c2023.
144 p.

This is a short novel by Hjorth, featuring a narrator looking back at her 16th year, when her home life is constrained by an overbearing, demanding mother whose extreme anxiety overshadows the narrator's experiences. 

She has a group of girlfriends that she is able to still do normal teenage things with, if she organizes and hides their activities under a shell of studying in 'no-boy' zones. But of course they are really going out to parties and getting drunk and making out with random older boys. 

Our narrator finds herself a boyfriend of a kind, and they make out a few times, with one of the most awkward sex scenes ever concluding their short-lived relationship. This is discovered by her parents, causing a violent, emotional flare-up, and a permanent crack in their family life. She is isolated, even though she still lives at home for a few more years, and kept from a relationship with her siblings as well - there is nobody to talk to and get any sense of their interpretations of the parental behaviours. 

There is a dark secret in the family past that this book circles around, avoiding naming it although it's clear to the reader. This shorter story is another approach to the story told in Will & Testament, and probably has more resonance if you've read that one. But it does stand alone, and the atmosphere of the story really evokes the suffocating sense of being 16 and in uncongenial circumstances, testing things out, trying to find yourself, understand life, and so on. The title is reflected both in the repeated routines of her days, and of the repeated family patterns shown through the story. The writing also reflects this, with certain phrases and images used again and again. 

I found it absorbing, as a real character study with lots of internal movement even if the outer world seemed static and repetitive. Really interesting. 

Translation Thursday

 

It's Translation Thursday! Each Thursday this month I'm going to share the translation I'm currently reading plus a few more on my reading list. Here's today's list:

Currently Reading:

Taiwan Travelogue / Yang Shuang-Zi
trans. from the Mandarin by Lin King

To Read: 

Small Comfort / Ia Genberg
trans. from the Swedish by Kira Josefsson

Heart Lamp / Banu Mushtaq
trans. from the Kannada by Deepa Bhasthi

A System so Magnificent it is Blinding / Amanda Svensson
trans. from the Swedish by Nichola Smalley

She Who Remains

She Who Remains / Rene Karabash
trans. from the Bulgarian by Izidora Angel
Southport, ME: Sandorf Passage, 2026, c2018.
152 p.

This was a shortlisted title on the International Booker list this year, which is how I first came across it. It's a novella written in Bulgarian and set in Albania, in the mountains where the strict rule of the Kanun shapes the lives of families, Bekija escapes an unwanted arranged marriage by becoming a sworn virgin. This is a status in which a woman gives up all her womanly attributes and swears lifelong celibacy, to live as a man. 

This decision destroys up her family, divides her from the person she loves, and creates a dark and lonely life for many years. The story begins as Bekija, now Matija, is telling their life story to a journalist who has travelled to their village to interview the last known Sworn Virgin. The narrative is thus quite stream of consciousness, or confessional, jumping around in time and focusing in on Matija's life and experiences. 

We slowly get a wider picture of everything that led to the present, and in the end get a glimpse into a new future for Matija as well. This story was so unfamiliar, and so beautifully written, that I just couldn't stop reading. It was shocking and eventful, without becoming melodramatic. It was packed with strong feeling and repressed emotion. And I felt that this character was explored deeply, even in the constraints of the short length of the novel. This is the author's debut novel, although she is an experienced screenwriter and actor. You can feel the influence of those here, as the book has sharp and unforgettable imagery along with the narrative line. Really impressed by this one, so much in such a short book. 

The Wax Child

The Wax Child / Olga Ravn
trans. from the Danish by Martin Aitken
TO: Book*hug Press, 2025, c2023.
200 p.

Another book on the International Booker longlist, I wanted to read this because of the author - I've read her speculative novel The Employees and was curious how she'd write a historical novel. 

The Wax Child is inspired by a real-life witch trial in the 17th century. The text incorporates quotes from letters, manuals, court documents and grimoires from that time. The writing is dense, full of imagery and visceral detail, and grounds the reader in the era. 

This is the story of Christenze Kruckow, an unmarried noblewoman who is accused of witchcraft along with a circle of other women. She is accused of all sorts of things, even of making a wax child, a dark magic. The book is narrated by the wax child, observing her maker and all the others before and while they go through the trials. This technique of a removed observer works well here, allowing a broader perspective than just that of Christenze, but it also creates uncertainty in the reader -- if the wax child is telling us this story, how much of the activity of witchcraft that they are accused of actually happened? Was there something going on, or is this just another example of men upset by women finding strength and solidarity together? 

I thought this was a great read. It's dark, and hard to read in parts, but the setting and the writing itself are both so powerful. Ravn recreates the suffocating atmosphere of this trial, and of women's lives, particularly unmarried women's lives, in this era. And she shows how these elements are still relevant to contemporary readers, but not in an obvious or didactic way -- it just comes through in the writing. This was a memorable read, one that has stuck with me.