Death at the Sanatorium by Ragnar Jonasson: A review

This book has three timelines, 2012, 1983, and 1950, and the narrative goes back and forth among the three. The setting of the story is an old tuberculosis sanatorium in northern Iceland and it involves the murder of a nurse and the apparent suicide (or maybe it, too, was murder) of the chief physician in 1983.

In 2012, a student named Helgi who is a lover of whodunits, has returned to Iceland after finishing his studies in the United Kingdom. He begins work on his Master of Arts dissertation on criminology and takes as his subject the murder and suicide (or possibly second murder) that took place at the sanatorium back in 1983.

The murder was never actually solved. The detective assigned to the case, a man named Sverrir, was eager to close it as soon as possible and he arrested the facility's caretaker on the flimsiest of evidence. Detective Hulda Hermannsdóttir had misgivings about her superior's action but did not have the authority to prevent it. A few days later the chief physician died in a fall at the sanatorium and Sverrir called it the suicide of the nurse's murderer. Case closed.

In his pursuit of research for his dissertation, Helgi contacts people who worked at the sanatorium to learn their memories and opinions about what happened in 1983. He follows leads that were never investigated by Sverrir and he learns that the man is now married to the nurse who had discovered both the deaths. Coincidence? Not likely!

Helgi is considering an opportunity to join the Reykjavik police department as Hulda's successor. He proves his worthiness for that position when he actually solves the decades-old mystery.

This was an interesting and well-written mystery. I thought I had read books by Jonasson previously but it turns out I had him confused with another writer. He's now on my "read" list and I will likely return to him in the future.

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

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