And there are enough clues that you can figure most of it out. This is the sort of worldbuilding I love: the kind where very little is explicitly explained, encouraging the reader to play detective and figure things out by themselves. Why is everyone vegan? Why does everyone has eczema? Why is the main character’s job so important, when all she’s doing is investigating skin care product usage? And most importantly–why do the people of Amatka have to regularly recite the names of the inanimate objects and buildings that surround them? and why do these inanimate object and buildings start to “shudder” when ignored for too long, even occasionally turning into gloop?
Except–little by little, it becomes clear that the world of Amatka, at first glance so familiar, is in fact profoundly strange. Women who don’t reproduce by a certain age are frowned upon (though homosexuality is accepted), children are raised separately from their parents, and the tiniest thing generates tons of paperwork. Its characters call each other “comrade”, they must always put the community before the individual, and the expression of heterodox views may get one reported. Then, suddenly and soundlessly, it collapsed into a pencil-shaped strip of gloop.Īt first, Karin Tidbeck’s Amatka seems like your standard Soviet-inspired dystopia. As Vanja bent closer to look, the shiny yellow surface whitened and buckled. ‘Pencil-pencil-pencil-pen-cilpen-cilpen- cilpen-cilpen-cilpen–‘
It wasn’t long before the words flowed together. Vanja emptied a box of pencils, lined them up on the shelf, amd pointed at them one by one. August is Women in Translation Month (#WITMonth), so I’m only reviewing books by women in translation.
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