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Letters From The Arctic
The Arctic beckons from the edge, at the limits of our geographic knowledge and civilized souls, nudging our guilty consciences ever so lightly when we read about melting ice and rising sea levels. It is also a place of mind. This is the story of Marianne, the tangled paths that led her onto a ship headed north, and the events that followed, involving bears, glaciers, mountains and several crossings of the Barents Sea. Twenty years after her first landfall she has returned to Svalbard, the desolate islands clustered halfway between Norway's northern tip and the North Pole. In an interweaving of past and present, she calls on local residents, a dead poet, old friends and an estranged lover, seeking to understand the currents that have transformed both herself and the place she used to call home. Inspired by W.H. Auden and Louis MacNeice's Letters From Iceland, this blend of letters, drawings, anecdotes and poems - including a mordant take on climate speculation seen through the lens of Aristophanes' comedy The Birds - invites the reader on a journey of reflection on self, society and the environment.
256 pages, Paperback
Published August 7, 2022
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
October 11, 2024
(4.25⭐️)
This book managed to tear apart many of my thoughts and feelings since coming to Svalbard, reflecting my own experiences in a way that felt deeply personal. One passage that particularly struck me was, "But mostly I was afraid of something quite different. That there wouldn't be the magic." This felt like a mirror to my own fear about leaving Svalbard—what if there's no magic left anywhere after this? What if this was the peak?
I also felt a sense of community that was mirrored by some of the stories the author told. Her story about staying with a German who took her in at Deke's house in 1994, after the Italian who hired her didn't answer the phone, reminded me of a recent moment in my own life. I called a Polish friend I'd met just two weeks before, asking for ibuprofen because I had a tough virus, and within seven minutes, she was at my apartment. It’s these small connections that feel timeless in a place like Svalbard, a place where people seem to understand and respond to each other's needs quickly and naturally. (ex: It reminded me of calling a Polish friend I made had met here two weeks before, asking for ibuprofen and her being at my apartment after 7 minutes because I had a really tough virus.)
One of the more surprising revelations in the book was that Svalbard was already a party place back in 1993. The author describes a party on the boat the night before her arrival, only to find no one awake the next day. I've never seen this town asleep, and it’s fascinating to think of the Svalbard of three decades ago still carrying that same energy.
The book also reinforced something I've always believed: that being in the right place at the right time is key. The author’s first trip to Svalbard happened by chance—when a friend turned down an opportunity to speak on a boat because he disliked boats, she stepped in. The unpredictability of such moments can change everything, just as I’ve found in my own journey.
A passage that really resonated with me was about the old Mauser rifles left over from World War II: "Then there are the old Mausers. Some with small swastikas carved into the wood. I have a strange feeling in my gut when carrying these guns. I wonder what they've done, what they've witnessed? Whose hands have held them?" That eerie feeling she describes is exactly how I feel when I carry them. There’s an inescapable sense of history, a heaviness that comes with handling something that’s seen more than I ever will.
Despite how deeply it resonated with me, I found it a bit too self-indulgent and introspective at times, which is the only reason I’m giving it 4.25 stars instead of a full 5. It’s beautiful, nonetheless.
This book managed to tear apart many of my thoughts and feelings since coming to Svalbard, reflecting my own experiences in a way that felt deeply personal. One passage that particularly struck me was, "But mostly I was afraid of something quite different. That there wouldn't be the magic." This felt like a mirror to my own fear about leaving Svalbard—what if there's no magic left anywhere after this? What if this was the peak?
I also felt a sense of community that was mirrored by some of the stories the author told. Her story about staying with a German who took her in at Deke's house in 1994, after the Italian who hired her didn't answer the phone, reminded me of a recent moment in my own life. I called a Polish friend I'd met just two weeks before, asking for ibuprofen because I had a tough virus, and within seven minutes, she was at my apartment. It’s these small connections that feel timeless in a place like Svalbard, a place where people seem to understand and respond to each other's needs quickly and naturally. (ex: It reminded me of calling a Polish friend I made had met here two weeks before, asking for ibuprofen and her being at my apartment after 7 minutes because I had a really tough virus.)
One of the more surprising revelations in the book was that Svalbard was already a party place back in 1993. The author describes a party on the boat the night before her arrival, only to find no one awake the next day. I've never seen this town asleep, and it’s fascinating to think of the Svalbard of three decades ago still carrying that same energy.
The book also reinforced something I've always believed: that being in the right place at the right time is key. The author’s first trip to Svalbard happened by chance—when a friend turned down an opportunity to speak on a boat because he disliked boats, she stepped in. The unpredictability of such moments can change everything, just as I’ve found in my own journey.
A passage that really resonated with me was about the old Mauser rifles left over from World War II: "Then there are the old Mausers. Some with small swastikas carved into the wood. I have a strange feeling in my gut when carrying these guns. I wonder what they've done, what they've witnessed? Whose hands have held them?" That eerie feeling she describes is exactly how I feel when I carry them. There’s an inescapable sense of history, a heaviness that comes with handling something that’s seen more than I ever will.
Despite how deeply it resonated with me, I found it a bit too self-indulgent and introspective at times, which is the only reason I’m giving it 4.25 stars instead of a full 5. It’s beautiful, nonetheless.
January 21, 2023
I really enjoyed this little gem. It's whimsical, clever, poetic, highly readable, amusing, a little bit dreamy and beautifully written. It has an unusual structure in which the narrative dips into and out of places, characters and time; the author's world is one where the sun doesn't set and serendipitous thing happen. The novel paints an evocative picture of the Arctic - its charms, perils and personalities, and its changing nature. The short play at the end, the writing of which is much mentioned in the novel as a kind of quest of the narrator, is a witty take on capitalism and the danger it (and climate change) pose to the Arctic.
September 5, 2022
Loved the epistolary structure of this novel paired with the really beautiful illustrations. I thought the descriptions of the arctic and the sailing experienxes were really interesting and evocative, especially as someone who has never been to any of the kinds of places described. Really interesting read!
October 19, 2024
Letters From The Arctic was a wonderful read, because Suzanne not only managed to write a beautiful but also a very recognisable story about life in Longyearbyen. At times, I felt she was writing about my own personal experiences from up there. Almost a bit creepy, but mostly just really wonderful to see this shared experience. The illustrations by Rosendo complete this work of art.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews