White Nights
Death is so commonplace in the collection that it loses its sting. The sense of doom is general and unremarkable, like the cold in winter. This, I think, undermines the rude energy of Ms. Honek’s writing, and the stories often seem divided between rage and indifference.
Lean, almost parsimonious ... Honek’s prose remains playfully lyrical in Webster’s excellent translation ... Incredibly powerful.
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Unapologetically stark ... The language is disturbing and poetic by turns––sometimes both at once ... Spectral and affecting.
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