Karin Tidbeck’s JAGANNATH

I have died of jealousy. I don’t know what else to say about this book. I finished it, said, “Holy fuck,” and then was immediately pissed that the person who gets all the books I want right before me at the library remains unknown to me so that I have no one to talk about it with.

Between this and discovering “Wolf” by First Aid Kit, it’s been a weirdly fine week for Swedish things. Did you know there are three acting Skarsgard brothers? I’m holding out hope that, by Tuesday, they will all, for some reason, be grinning wickedly at me.

Anyway, this book is fantastic. All the hype is true. It is beautiful and strange and horrible and sad and lovely through and through.

But I’m going to tell you that I don’t even think that the person who had it before me from the library read it, because, when I got it, it was slim and rectangular on all sides. But where I’ve been into it? You can tell, down at the bottom where the pages right by the spine billow out.

Your loss, mystery person. Your loss.

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