Butterflies in November

I’ll admit, part of me was just curious to read something by an Icelandic author (I want to diversify my reading). I have no idea of the grammatical structure of Icelandic, my only guesses stemmed from a few clauses and gender assignments or usages. Anyway: I loved this book! It is a touching, sweet, and funny work that reminded me a little of the “About a Boy” story. The narrator – what is her name? – seems both motherly and not motherly, and these pages are full of real empathy.

There are passages in italics, what are they? Stuff she has translated and remembered? dreams? daydreams? flashbacks? diary entries? her grandmother’s diary? The best answer seems to be “compressed memories.” Our narrator is translator of eleven languages, and starts to learn sign language as well. Often looking for the right thesaurus, she has the critical mind of an editor and knows to not always interfere. This translation was well done, and just happens to be the European way of saying things, like the bonnet, boot, or “tyre” of a car. Two words I got to know were “duvet” and “anorak,” which I now realize reflect the country’s climate. The setting is tangible but not overpowering, and I felt there is a sort of timeless quality to the story-telling.

This is a great road trip, on Iceland’s Ring Road, National Highway One. You expect the fortune teller, or “medium,” will have some credibility, such as everything coming in threes. I had lots of laughs, one example a certain image of a sheep that comes across them.

The author has a refined way of telling what’s going on without having to say everything. The chapters are not very long; sometimes the action continues right where it left off, other times it jumps greater distances. Her narrator, imperfect like all of us, receives wanted and unwanted attention, and she muses over why. One of the only characters whose name is used regularly is her musician friend, whose name is the same as the author’s first. There’s Nína Lind, her husband Thorsteinn’s new woman he is having a child with, and of course Tumi, “the boy”, whom she refers to as her “protégé.” His character is just adorable, so loveable through the narrator’s perspective. An unnamed Santa Claus plays an interesting role in the second half of the book. I forgot there are recipes at the end, and so I re-read the last page of the forty-sixth chapter multiple times, it is so beautiful. “Butteflies in November” as a whole is a great read, I highly recommend.