Astrid and Veronika
Book review: Astrid and Veronika by Linda Olsson
This book is billed as one of those "unlikely friendship between women" stories; the last one I'd read (Good Harbor, by Anita Diamante) was distinctly awful, so I was wary of this one. It's Olsson's first novel. She clearly has some promise as a writer. Veronika, a twenty-something writer arriving in rural Sweden to work on her book, rents a house next to Astrid, who is about 78. It started out alright. A couple pages in: "[Veronika's] life slowly found its own organic rhythm. After a week she has established her morning routine. She got up early, had coffee at the kitchen table and watched to room absorb that growing daylight. It felt as if the house had accepted her, as if they had begun their life together. The soles of her feet had become familiar with the wooden stpes of the staircase, her nose accustomed to the smells of the walls, and she was gradually adding her own imprint, leaving minute traces."
The writing shows some descriptive talent. However, it's like this the whole book. Nearly everything is described this way, and it starts to get tedious rather quickly. As Veronika and Astrid meet, they both start to wake up to life or something, and start telling each other of their pasts. And the descriptions in their narrated stories are also this overdone and emotionally loaded.
So what had started out with some promise because incredibly tedious, very quickly. There's no sense of priority as far as what has significance; memories from years ago still contain bits about the angle and quality of the light on the floorboards. Every pause in conversation, every "Astrid said nothing" and "Veronika fell silent" is recorded, as is every detail of everything they pass when they walk together. It's incredibly tiring, as are the instances of things like, "You know, Veronika, there was a time when I was afraid to come here. Now I understand that it was my own company that I feared." There are many of these.
Overall, the book is tedious and melodramatic; you hear about their great pains, and how much they've been afraid of life, and you want to tell them to get OVER it already. I found myself constantly rolling my eyes at the writing, and got sick enough of it that I didn't care about the characters at all. Had I not been reading this for a book club, I wouldn't have gotten past page 50.
This book is billed as one of those "unlikely friendship between women" stories; the last one I'd read (Good Harbor, by Anita Diamante) was distinctly awful, so I was wary of this one. It's Olsson's first novel. She clearly has some promise as a writer. Veronika, a twenty-something writer arriving in rural Sweden to work on her book, rents a house next to Astrid, who is about 78. It started out alright. A couple pages in: "[Veronika's] life slowly found its own organic rhythm. After a week she has established her morning routine. She got up early, had coffee at the kitchen table and watched to room absorb that growing daylight. It felt as if the house had accepted her, as if they had begun their life together. The soles of her feet had become familiar with the wooden stpes of the staircase, her nose accustomed to the smells of the walls, and she was gradually adding her own imprint, leaving minute traces."
The writing shows some descriptive talent. However, it's like this the whole book. Nearly everything is described this way, and it starts to get tedious rather quickly. As Veronika and Astrid meet, they both start to wake up to life or something, and start telling each other of their pasts. And the descriptions in their narrated stories are also this overdone and emotionally loaded.
So what had started out with some promise because incredibly tedious, very quickly. There's no sense of priority as far as what has significance; memories from years ago still contain bits about the angle and quality of the light on the floorboards. Every pause in conversation, every "Astrid said nothing" and "Veronika fell silent" is recorded, as is every detail of everything they pass when they walk together. It's incredibly tiring, as are the instances of things like, "You know, Veronika, there was a time when I was afraid to come here. Now I understand that it was my own company that I feared." There are many of these.
Overall, the book is tedious and melodramatic; you hear about their great pains, and how much they've been afraid of life, and you want to tell them to get OVER it already. I found myself constantly rolling my eyes at the writing, and got sick enough of it that I didn't care about the characters at all. Had I not been reading this for a book club, I wouldn't have gotten past page 50.