When a Nordic neighbour wins a Nobel, it’s nice to take notice. So last autumn at a book fair, nestling among the Rosebuds, I spotted Jon Fosse, in a deep Fitzcarraldo (Norwegian flag cross?) blue cover, with a gold sticker shaped like a seal that read “winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature” in important capital letters. I wilted slightly at the thought of Septology (scarred by Knausgård, perhaps?) but this one was slim and more pocket-sized than most smartphones, these days. I snapped it up and took it home.
Aliss at the Fire, translated by Damion Searls, was worth picking out from among the rosebuds. It defies the pomp and circumstance surrounding it. The story spirals through memories back to one woman, Aliss, and forward to her great-great-grandson, Asle. But it’s Asle’s wife, Signe, who’s doing the remembering. The cold fjord out there in the dark and the warm fire casting a tiny light frame those memories. I read it at the darkest time of the year, between Christmas and New Year, when the longing for warmth and light is strongest – as is the hope it will return. There is pain and death here, and it hits hard, reverberating down years and generations. You’d have to be feeling particularly resilient to take volumes and volumes of this spiralling style, but as a tiny taster of Fosse, start with Aliss.
Translator, editor, writer, reader
found in translation 
This I have my eye on to buy. Thank you for your revieew
In terms of buy borrow or bypass this one’s a buy! Hope you enjoy it