The Summer Book

by Tove Jansson

Gathering is peculiar, because you see nothing but what you’re looking for. If you’re picking raspberries, you see only what’s red, and if you’re looking for bones you see only the white. No matter where you go, the only thing you see is bones.

An island can be dreadful for someone from outside. Everything is complete, and everyone has his obstinate, sure and self-sufficient place. Within their shores, everything functions according to rituals that are as hard as rock from repetition, and at the same time they amble through their days as whimsically and casually as if the world ended at the horizon.

“It’s funny about love,” Sophia said. “The more you love someone, the less he likes you back.” “That’s very true,” Grandmother observed. “And so what do you do?” “You go on loving,” said Sophia threateningly. “You love harder and harder.” Her grandmother sighed and said nothing.

That’s strange, Grandmother thought. I can’t describe things any more. I can’t find the words, or maybe it’s just that I’m not trying hard enough. It was such a long time ago. No one here was even born. And unless I tell it because I want to, it’s as if it never happened; it gets closed off and then it’s lost.

Sometimes people never saw things clearly until it was too late and they no longer had the strength to start again. Or else they forgot their idea along the way and didn’t even realise that they had forgotten.

Smell is important. It reminds a person of all the things he’s been through; it is a sheath of memories and security.

Wise as she was, she realised that people can postpone their rebellious phases until they’re eighty-five years old, and she decided to keep an eye on herself.

It really was a shame, seeing that she had now reached the age where a person can safely be truthful about small things.