This is an intense biography by a writer every bit as talented as Isak Dinesen but much more sane, thank God. By any measure, Isak Dinesen was about as complicated, tempestuous, and megalomaniacal as they come. Midway through this giant tombstone of a book, I was wishing I hadn't opted to find out so much about her. I've loved her work for years without knowing much about her, and had the chance this summer--because I'm living in Scandinavia for a few years--to visit her home north of Copenhagen, a lovely, evocative place. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and the visit filled me with peace and a warm desire to understand her. The depth of my naivete! No one understood her, and even Judith Thurman strains some muscles in trying to explain how Blixen could countenance, for instance, her demand of a blood pact, a Faustian give-me-your-soul deal, of an impressionable young writer who was in love with her. She stole his soul and his independence, ruined his marriage, and just about ruined him as well. He wrote after her death that she would have murdered his wife without a second thought if only she'd lived in an earlier era--the sort of era she writes so vibrantly about in her tales.
Earlier in her life, she had hidden herself in a cloak of anonymity, thus her pen name of Isak Dinesen, and she used several others during her career. She did this because she wanted the freedom to be herself on the page (and on the page she's magnificent), and to keep her private life private. She thought the work should stand for the writer. I wish I'd heeded this youthful wisdom of hers. She lost it, and so did I.
That said, Thurman's penetration of Dinesen's character is brilliant, and Dinesen is lucky to have had such an intellect, such a generous soul as Thurman, on her trail.