This is the short first person singular (pseudo?) memoir of a modern Reykjavik midwife in four generations of midwives married to generations of funeral directors. The focus is largely on the author’s Icelandic culture and philosophy as related to her by her eccentric midwife great aunt. She was fond of spewing her thoughts on anything and everything apropos of nothing, in conversation and writing, much of it found in old manuscripts left to the author. There is almost no plot. The strength of the book rests largely on the delightful symbolism of entrances and exits, darkness in the womb and the grave and light in between, even in the northern winter. These convey profound universal truths about the relationships of humans to other form of life (hence the title), and what it means to be alive. She seems to regard humans as just another species cohabitating the earth, in danger of extinction.
In the course of her reading the notes left by her deceased predecessor, she discovers manuscripts on understanding human’s helplessness at both ends of a lifespan with helpfulness in between, and seems accepting of and trying to understand both the beauty and the cruelty and randomness of the nature of life. “I’m trying to understand fleeting and dangerous phenomena such as life itself.” “She considered coincidence to be the most important concept in evolution.” “To her mind, details are just another word for fundamentals.”
“The baby draws a breath. I think, from now on he will draw a breath 23,000 times a day”, (I would add “until he doesn’t however long that takes.”)
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Although the existential almost nihilistic theme could be considered a downer, somehow the acceptance of life and death as they appear by random chance seem refreshing and uplifting, even in the absence of any invocation of any deeper spiritual meaning to life.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Thanks, The Economist.
The Passionate Reader 