Carina Rydberg – The Highest Caste (twelve)

For the first time in my life I have read a great contemporary book written in Swedish. And by great I mean that Rydberg makes you feel things, makes you feel and taste the words, weigh the sentences in your head. It is written nakedly and honestly, and for the most part with little emotion in the words. Almost no metaphor. Dry, minimalist without being snobbish, it’s artisan, it’s a craft that is pushed forward by the heart but delivered through the brain.
Rydbergs story is furthermore a very personal one, and it begs little forgiveness, shows the life of the author without painting over the ugly parts. Told in almost complete chronological order, something that is more and more rare, it still manages to transcend time. Or, more precisely, time is not really treated as an issue in the story and so the strict chronology does nothing to restrict it. It remains dreaming.
Every act of reading is personal, and of course I liked this novel so much in part because it is so intensely written by a writer. All the classical autobiographical hints are there; all the thinking, the notebooks, the roaming personality. So many others line up with Rydberg on this stage.
My recommendation is that you read it. Especially if you are Swedish, because this is, again the best Swedish writing I have come across from today.