A few weeks ago, by chance, I ran across Forest Dark in Andes’ new art gallery, Hawk and Hive, and devoured it in a day or two. The book dazzled me.
Vesper Flights puts together brief meditations on the author’s experiences of nature, meditations that succeed one another like objects on a strange necklace—of stones and shells and claws and bones, planets, dried flowers and things without a name.
A review of several Arnaldur Indridason books.
Though they might well be, these are not the ponderings of someone too long subjected to the lonely deprivations of the Covid-19 pandemic; they are the thoughts of Inspector Erlendur Sveinsson, returned to his spare apartment after an unbearably long day and a half spent caring for his pregnant, homeless, drug-addicted daughter early in Silence of the Grave.