Out Stealing Horses

This is a quiet book, with a subtle, quiet impact. Thankfully, such low-decibel works are still receiving attention in the world of smash-'em-ups and steamy scandal, where much of our entertainment lives. The fifth novel from a former librarian, Out Stealing Horses is worth your time, if only to remind you how valuable that time is, and how quickly and irrevocably it forges ahead.

We follow the story of Trond Sander, a hermetic type living out his last years in a small house, tucked away in the forests of eastern Norway. The main action plods along with the cadence of routine: a man wakes up; he sets the kettle on the stove; he lights the burner; he pours coffee into a mug. That Petterson is able to convey such everyday happenings in a way that remains compelling is a testament to both his artful restraint and his faith in the reader. No reviewer of this book will ever use the words "propulsive" or "runaway locomotive" to describe the pace of what unfolds. Instead, they've used words like "palpable" (NY Times Book Review) and "lingers" (The Independent) and "reverberates" (IMPAC Dublin Literary Award). Such effects come from the author's main narrative device--that of an older man recounting his youth. We shift between the 67-year-old Sander to the adolescent Trond. Details from each echo back and forth: an outcry at thirteen sets up a tendency years later; a perspective from now reveals its origin from then. The structure works, building tension for what will happen next, even though that "next" took place half a century ago. The result is a sort of retroactive drama--though not a new technique, there's a reason storytelling in all forms, from novels to television serials, often hinge on this ability to flash-back and -forward. We, the reader (or viewer), is removed from the limitations of chronology, opening up oppurtunities for insightful juxtaposition near-impossible during the A-Z version. Not to say Horses is the Pulp Fiction of realistic Scandinavian literature (though I'd love to read that book). Suffice to say, an old trick is used to great effect in capturing the rhythms of regret and nostalgia.

When [reveal spoiler][hide spoiler]  tragedy strikes (and it does), the blow is cushioned by the pillowy dampening of memory. The reader experiences life-altering moments through remembrance, not active participation; even if the initial event was shattering to the youthful protagonist, time has glued together the pieces, and we see a reflection of that life, if a bit fragmentary and dusty with age.

For me, this was a surprising read, as it never resorted to gimmickry to amp up the tension or exaggerate the impact. I tend to gravitate toward "Clever" writing, even if the writer's exertion threatens to remove me from the organic flow of the story. But Petterson's Horses is all-natural: the smell of the pine, the cloud of sawdust in your eyes, the shimmer off the ice. Even an apprehensive dog is just that: not some arch indicator of future foul play, but merely a lone water-fowl upwind. This is a novel about people--fathers, childhood friends, impossible loves--and the satisfaction that comes from hard work. Not a novel about a novel about people, requiring hard work to read and understand. For this lover of postmodern tricksters like Barth and Pynchon, the straight-forward style was refreshing.

Here is the older Trond, waking up in his room: "I woke up feeling someone stroking my cheek. I thought it was my mother. I thought I was a little boy. I have a mother I said to myself, I forgot. And then it came to me what she looked like, feature by feature, until she was almost completely put together and was the one I had always seen, but the face I looked up at was not her face, and for a moment there I was hovering between two worlds with a half-awake eye in each." To read Out Stealing Horses feels a little like how the narrator feels at this moment: half-asleep, with the image of a dream fading into the reality of what's in front of him. Maybe part of this in-between state comes from the fact it was translated from the Norwegian into English. Or maybe the author is simply in tune with those unexplainable truths of the subconscious, realizing much of what we remember comes from dreams, and much of what we dream are memories yet to come.