Two middle-aged sisters live together on the edge of the moors in a remote part of northern Norway. They experience little of life beyond their house although the elder, Ragna, occasionally ventures into the village for provisions. The younger sister and (I think) unnamed chronicler of their lonely existence has been disabled since childhood, dragging her withered legs around on crutches, which function as both mobility aid and weapon. Their mutual resentment at their dependence on each other forges a bond of hatred more powerful than love that binds them to the house they have occupied their entire lives (p 81-82):
The question of Ragna’s choices, or lack of choices, involves answers I am not too happy about … Ragna’s story makes for a really uncomfortable drama, and I’m put in an impossible position when the revelation comes. There are of course all the lies she clings to so as to keep a balance between us. That she makes me weak so as to be able to feel strong herself. That she exaggerates her own importance so as to avoid feeling the pathetic, helpless female she actually is. But I, with my need of care, have become her excuse for not creating a proper life for herself, that I and my sickly body have become her self-imposed fate and mission in life, that’s something quite different … Ragna and I are probably quite similar, have precisely the same cast of mind. We do not have any other choice but to remain. We are equally frightened and helpless, and cling to each other as a defence against the outside world: she out of anxiety about her inability to interact with other people, all the social niceties, the things she hasn’t learned to master and understand; and I out of fear of losing the remainder of myself at the hands of cynical strangers in an institution.
Into this miserable household comes Johan, upsetting the delicate balance between the sisters. The introduction of sexuality – neglected by Ragna since adolescence and never part of the younger sister’s experience at all – intensifies childish feelings of rivalry until the younger sister is completely overpowered. As the narrative continues, it becomes less and less clear how much of her paranoia stems from her isolating delusions and how much the malevolence of the new couple.
While this is the story of middle-aged loneliness and sibling rivalries, the seeds of destruction have been sown much earlier on. The parents seem to have been neglectful, especially of our narrator whose mysterious illness at the age of four was left to Ragna to monitor, resulting in a delay in getting her to hospital where she languished for several months without contact from her family. No wonder the elder sister’s jealous rage is threaded with guilt and the younger, fond of word games, feels her very existence is precarious (p181):
I exist, and do not know it.
I do not exist, and know it.
Perhaps it’s the internalisation of this early neglect that explains the women’s passivity, manifest in the absence of disability aids other than her crutches, along with Ragna’s inability to create a life for herself outside the house until Johan comes on the scene. The Looking-Glass Sisters is Gohril Gabrielsen’s second novel, published in Norwegian in 2008 and translated into English by John Irons.
Into this miserable household comes Johan, upsetting the delicate balance between the sisters. The introduction of sexuality – neglected by Ragna since adolescence and never part of the younger sister’s experience at all – intensifies childish feelings of rivalry until the younger sister is completely overpowered. As the narrative continues, it becomes less and less clear how much of her paranoia stems from her isolating delusions and how much the malevolence of the new couple.
While this is the story of middle-aged loneliness and sibling rivalries, the seeds of destruction have been sown much earlier on. The parents seem to have been neglectful, especially of our narrator whose mysterious illness at the age of four was left to Ragna to monitor, resulting in a delay in getting her to hospital where she languished for several months without contact from her family. No wonder the elder sister’s jealous rage is threaded with guilt and the younger, fond of word games, feels her very existence is precarious (p181):
I exist, and do not know it.
I do not exist, and know it.
Perhaps it’s the internalisation of this early neglect that explains the women’s passivity, manifest in the absence of disability aids other than her crutches, along with Ragna’s inability to create a life for herself outside the house until Johan comes on the scene. The Looking-Glass Sisters is Gohril Gabrielsen’s second novel, published in Norwegian in 2008 and translated into English by John Irons.
Winter 1867: the snow is thick on the ground and, due to the summer’s failed harvest and the unwillingness of the government to ask for a bailout, famine is rife in northern Finland. Families, driven by hunger and the hope that somewhere things must be better, abandon their remote farms. We follow one such family of four as they are met with alternately suspicion and kindness, as, one-by-one, they succumb to exhaustion and disease. A hearty meal consists of watery gruel and bread made from flour eked out with pine bark, lichen (which turns out to be poisonous) or ground bones. When a woman dies (p114):
the snow fell over her, in the end not entirely tucking her in, but devouring her, like a raging sea dragging a castaway into its depths.
We also see the famine from the perspective of those more fortunate: a doctor, his brother and the senator responsible for emergency relief.
While the story is essentially one of suffering, it ends with the melting snows of spring and the hope of recovery. The youngest child of the family has survived, and is adopted by a childless couple. He will be loved and yet, for me, the most poignant part of the novel comes when the little boy sits to eat from a rose-patterned bowl, clearly disturbed by the hazy recollection of a similar scene from his previous life. But, too young to put his experience into words, and with no-one left who can do it for him, he is condemned to be continually confused.
A prize-winning debut in the original Finnish version published in 2012, and beautifully translated into English by Emily Jeremiah and Fleur Jeremiah, I nevertheless found myself feeling on the outside of the story for most of the novella, unable to connect as much as I would have liked.
the snow fell over her, in the end not entirely tucking her in, but devouring her, like a raging sea dragging a castaway into its depths.
We also see the famine from the perspective of those more fortunate: a doctor, his brother and the senator responsible for emergency relief.
While the story is essentially one of suffering, it ends with the melting snows of spring and the hope of recovery. The youngest child of the family has survived, and is adopted by a childless couple. He will be loved and yet, for me, the most poignant part of the novel comes when the little boy sits to eat from a rose-patterned bowl, clearly disturbed by the hazy recollection of a similar scene from his previous life. But, too young to put his experience into words, and with no-one left who can do it for him, he is condemned to be continually confused.
A prize-winning debut in the original Finnish version published in 2012, and beautifully translated into English by Emily Jeremiah and Fleur Jeremiah, I nevertheless found myself feeling on the outside of the story for most of the novella, unable to connect as much as I would have liked.
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