The Island by Ragnar Jonasson: A review

This is the second in Ragnar Jonasson's "Hidden Iceland" series. Uniquely, he chose to write the story in reverse order and so the events of this novel actually take place some fifteen years before those of the first book, The Darkness.

It is 1997 and Inspector Hulda Hermansdottir's mother had recently died. Following her death, Hulda had decided to try to find her American father. All she knew about him was that he was a GI who served in Reykavik after World War II, his first name was Robert and he came from Georgia. She was able to identify two possible candidates and she flew to Savannah to meet one of them. This very nice man told Hulda that her father must have been the other guy and he checked on him for her and discovered that he was dead. Thus ended her search but her interlude in America was an interesting fragment of the overall story. It emphasized just how lonely Hulda's life was. Ten years earlier, her beloved teenage daughter had committed suicide and a couple of years later her husband died. Now her mother is gone and, apparently, her father is, too, so she is alone in the world.

Her cure for her loneliness is to throw herself into her work. Ten years earlier, around the same time as her daughter's death, a young woman named Katia had been murdered on remote, uninhabited Ellidaey Island. Hulda's co-worker at the time, Lydur, had investigated the case and had concluded that her father had abused and killed her. The man was arrested and he committed suicide in custody and so there was never a trial. The case was closed. The notoriety of this investigation had propelled Lydur up the ladder of success and now he is Hulda's boss.

On the tenth anniversary of the young woman's death, her brother and three friends of hers go to the lonely island supposedly to commemorate Katia's death. What could possibly go wrong? Well, soon, one of the friends ends up dead at the bottom of a cliff with marks around the throat that point to another murder. There are only three other people on the island, so the murderer must be one of them. Hulda will investigate. Her investigation becomes seriously inconvenient for her boss when she raises questions about the guilt of Katia's father in the earlier murder. Is it possible both young women were murdered by the same person?

Jonasson really does excel at creating an atmosphere of foreboding. This is helped along by his evocative descriptions of the isolated and yet stunningly beautiful Icelandic landscape. Moreover, his plotting with its hints of possible paranormal effects helps to keep the reader guessing and the personality of Hulda, stubborn, prickly, and perfectionist in her work engages the reader's sympathy. It is a potent and winning combination. I can't wait to go back even further to Hulda's earlier years and so I'm not going to wait; I'm heading straight into the last book in the series, The Mist.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

Search This Blog