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A review by expendablemudge
Ashes to Dust by Yrsa Sigurðardóttir
3.0
Real Rating: 3.5* of five
The Publisher Says: In 1973, a volcanic eruption buried an entire Icelandic village in lava and ash. Now this macabre tourist attraction proves deadly once again—when the discovery of fresh bodies casts a shadow of suspicion onto Markús Magnússon, a man accused of killing his childhood sweetheart. His attorney Þóra Guðmundsdóttir finds that her client has a most inventive story to tell. But the locals seem oddly reluctant to back him up...
My Review: This is a dark, dark, dark book. It's not for the depressive or the depressed. The congenitally chirpy should read it because they'll finally be brought down enough not to infuriate the rest of us.
Thora (I can't do the ASCII again, it hurts my hands), the sleuth in the series (of which this is installment 3, though the first I've read), is very matter-of-fact, very unflappable. She's not unemotional, not really, as her actions indicate. But she is one of those folks in life who create a sense of calm for those around them by being solid and confident. And usually right.
The story is propelled, and I use that term advisedly, by the short chapters headed with the date and day of the week. It's an additional source of tension-building, and honestly it's not crucial because believe you me there is oodles of tension in the plot already.
I admire the Icelanders. They put the banksters who crashed the economy in jail, threw the gummint out, and they protect their people in so many ways, unlike the austerity addicts in the rest of Europe who are effin' over the people to please those same profiteering banksters. Oops, political rant, sorry. I meant to segue into, "But considering how much murder there seems to be in that country of a half-million or so, I won't be visiting any time soon." Heh. My bad. Arnaldur Indridason's novels, these by Yrsa Sigurdardottir, they paint a grim picture of the beautiful island of Iceland. Surely it's a happier place than this!
I remember watching with thrilled terror as Heimay erupted on the TV in 1973. It was so exciting to see it in color, and in almost real time! (They were simpler times, younguns, stop smirking.) The author's choice of setting is guaranteed to make me sit up and take notice. But the plot she sets in motion is what relentlessly pulled me along.
So why three and a half stars, when surely that sounds like a full four are merited? Because for me, the place and personal names are a bugger for me to keep in my head. The text uses all the proper diacritical marks though thankfully not the thorn and eth letters that would ordinarily feature in the names. I blush to admit this, it's so very annoying a trait in me, but the Nordic languages are damn close to impenetrable to me for these reasons...the letters and the weirdass placement of accents that don't mean accenting and umlauts that don't do what I expect them to. I can't speak along in my head as I can with French or Spanish or Portuguese. It all turns into a Prairie Home Companion joke-Norwegian-accented muddle.
Yes yes, it's my problem not the text's fault, but it's my review so features my response. I assign my rating accordingly. Condemnatory tuttings are not welcome, or invited, nor will they be met with saintly silence.
This book was a LibraryThing Early Reviewers win.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
The Publisher Says: In 1973, a volcanic eruption buried an entire Icelandic village in lava and ash. Now this macabre tourist attraction proves deadly once again—when the discovery of fresh bodies casts a shadow of suspicion onto Markús Magnússon, a man accused of killing his childhood sweetheart. His attorney Þóra Guðmundsdóttir finds that her client has a most inventive story to tell. But the locals seem oddly reluctant to back him up...
My Review: This is a dark, dark, dark book. It's not for the depressive or the depressed. The congenitally chirpy should read it because they'll finally be brought down enough not to infuriate the rest of us.
Thora (I can't do the ASCII again, it hurts my hands), the sleuth in the series (of which this is installment 3, though the first I've read), is very matter-of-fact, very unflappable. She's not unemotional, not really, as her actions indicate. But she is one of those folks in life who create a sense of calm for those around them by being solid and confident. And usually right.
The story is propelled, and I use that term advisedly, by the short chapters headed with the date and day of the week. It's an additional source of tension-building, and honestly it's not crucial because believe you me there is oodles of tension in the plot already.
I admire the Icelanders. They put the banksters who crashed the economy in jail, threw the gummint out, and they protect their people in so many ways, unlike the austerity addicts in the rest of Europe who are effin' over the people to please those same profiteering banksters. Oops, political rant, sorry. I meant to segue into, "But considering how much murder there seems to be in that country of a half-million or so, I won't be visiting any time soon." Heh. My bad. Arnaldur Indridason's novels, these by Yrsa Sigurdardottir, they paint a grim picture of the beautiful island of Iceland. Surely it's a happier place than this!
I remember watching with thrilled terror as Heimay erupted on the TV in 1973. It was so exciting to see it in color, and in almost real time! (They were simpler times, younguns, stop smirking.) The author's choice of setting is guaranteed to make me sit up and take notice. But the plot she sets in motion is what relentlessly pulled me along.
So why three and a half stars, when surely that sounds like a full four are merited? Because for me, the place and personal names are a bugger for me to keep in my head. The text uses all the proper diacritical marks though thankfully not the thorn and eth letters that would ordinarily feature in the names. I blush to admit this, it's so very annoying a trait in me, but the Nordic languages are damn close to impenetrable to me for these reasons...the letters and the weirdass placement of accents that don't mean accenting and umlauts that don't do what I expect them to. I can't speak along in my head as I can with French or Spanish or Portuguese. It all turns into a Prairie Home Companion joke-Norwegian-accented muddle.
Yes yes, it's my problem not the text's fault, but it's my review so features my response. I assign my rating accordingly. Condemnatory tuttings are not welcome, or invited, nor will they be met with saintly silence.
This book was a LibraryThing Early Reviewers win.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.