I have only read maybe three volumes of Peter Hoeg, all in translation, and yet I am an enduring fan. I consider myself an enduring fan despite the translations, because even in the translations that I've read - each penned by a different translator - the author's storytelling capability, and voice, just shine.
The author clearly possesses an almost boundless general knowledge in areas that speak most clearly to my soul: Dance, mathematics, physics, love.
Tales of the Night takes the issue of love and examines it through a range of lenses. One is dance. One is law. One is physics. One is art. One is drama. Each one different. Each one layered and intense. Each one narrated with a skill that one doesn't seem to find with native English-speaking authors, a style that is perhaps characteristic of other languages leaving their hue on what would otherwise be a rather paltry kind of story. I believe that those whose works are translated into English from cultures that are deeply entwined with story - Russians, Scandinavians - have a depth even in English that native English storytellers don't have. This depth is aided by the intensity of skill required to translate something beautifully: A far-reaching vocabulary and a sensitivity to style that most authors in their home languages don't have.
This is, I realise, an exceedingly generic kind of statement, one without much substance, filled entirely with the opinion of one who has a paltry reading history (realistically). A handful of Russian authors, a library in which under 30% exist by virtue of translation, a geographical spread of authorship limited by access and interest. And yet it somehow feels right, so challenge it if you will.
The first work of Hoeg's that I encountered was the incredible Miss Smilla's Feeling for Snow. After absorbing the art of this story, I devoured Borderliners too. And then the author seemed to disappear for years: I never saw one of his works anywhere. Until recently, when I saw Tales of the Night and didn't hesitate to own it. This disappearance is something akin to the author's own sinking away from public life, which happened after he released one of his next titles, The Woman and the Ape, which, incidentally, I've never seen much less read. I can't comment on any of the works he wrote after 1993, in fact, because that's literally where my reading of his works ceases. His modern works have been considered 'too postmodern' and difficult, though I suspect that the reading public has also found itself less capable of keeping up with intelligences that are often beyond our own. Perhaps one day I will find myself in a position to assess whether or not that is the case, or whether I'm simply being a pig-headed bigot.
Tales of the Night is a simple volume of a small number of stories that are deceptively deep in their respective philosophical positions. As a volume of stories to consume at night, before bed, I can't recommend it to you enough. As a volume of stories demonstrative of one of the most skillful writers of our age, I also can't recommend it to you enough.
My curiosity may forever wonder about whether or not the shape of Hoeg's works is as poetic and beautiful in their original Danish. That, however, is something I am very unlikely to discover for myself.