Instead, Sjón places the human dramas at the forefront. He could have written a book thrice as long about with Mani Steinn (nicknamed ‘moonstone’ after a ‘gentleman’ says that’s what it sounds like in English). From interviews, I’ve gathered that Sjón spent weeks reviewing popular movies from the 1910s and 20s, sorting through archival documents of Reykjavík’s response to the influenza outbreak, and searching for hints (mostly indirect) of queer life in Iceland.

He employs this amazing restraint on his research as well. A well-regarded poet, Sjón shows his willpower and skill in keeping one line when 100 other (almost) equally good lines could easily be published. It’s most noticeable in his prose, which is sparse an limpid. The answer may be simple: Sjón has distanced himself from generic historical fiction. Why was the atmosphere so rich as to supersede borders and time? How did Sjón (which means sight in Icelandic, the best pen name I’ve ever heard) create a world that was at once diffusive and exact, so much so that I could carry in my mind and heart the plight of a 16 year old cinephile, hustler in 1918 influenza-decimated Reykjavík?

Especially when the book’s lightness comes from a graceful plot and considered language, as is the case for Icelandic author Sjón‘s latest novel, Moonstone: The Boy Who Never Was.Īfter crossing the 144 pages, I asked myself what kept me so engaged throughout. I’m shy to admit it, but I think it’s safe to say we all feel this way: reading short books make us feel accomplished.

Moonstone by sjón