James Wood, from the New Yorker:
I have a friend, a writer, who became so obsessed by the Norwegian novelist Per Petterson’s “I Curse the River of Time” that he copied it out, word for word—perhaps hoping that his pure replica might unlock the secrets of that mysterious book, with its curling form and drifting sentences. When he told me this, I had not read anything by Petterson. But how could anyone resist such a recommendation? As soon as I opened “I Curse the River of Time” (one of the great titles), I understood the dementing lure.
And who could resist *that* recommendation? Up to now I’ve only read Out Stealing Horses, which Wood calls “more straightforward and less interesting” (and more prize-winning). Was happy to find a copy of Jeg forbanner tidens elv on our bookshelf, but yes, in Norwegian…