Book Review: Snow Country, by Sebastian Faulks (2021)


You’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover, right? In this case, I probably went for the book by its title alone. I like snow and I like writing about snow. I like snow in words. I probably like words in snow. Being a fan of the author as well, his name on the cover will have added to the persuasion. Thus, I picked up and began this novel some time ago, and although I’ve only just finished it, I actually read it very quickly. It’s just that certain other things intervened (including Sylvie Simmons excellent biography of Leonard Cohen).

Once I settled down to it, I found this latest Sebastian Faulks offering to be another very enjoyable read. As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t recognise the style of his writing compared to when I read his work many years ago, but I have a feeling that it might be me who has changed, rather than him. It would be interesting to re-read some of his earliest works to find out. Ultimately, the title of this book proved to be a bit misleading, as there’s very little snow content here. There is some ice – a frozen lake in front of the grand Schloss Seeblick (home of the psychiatry clinic established in 2005’s Human Traces), where much of the story is based – but that’s about it. At the end there’s a note acknowledging the Japanese author and former Nobel prize winner Yasunari Kawabata, and in particular the inspiration provided by his 1935 novel Yukiguni – which translates as Snow Country.

There are some familiar Faulks features to this novel, most notably the setting around the build-up and then the aftermath of the First World War. There’s not too much focus on the actual events of the conflict, but rather the impact it had – psychologically, physically, literally – on the people who were caught up in it, which in the case of this narrative is the character Anton Heideck. Set predominantly in Austria (Vienna and elsewhere), we follow Anton’s fate as a budding journalist and somewhat forlorn romantic, who meets and falls deeply in love with an older French woman (Delphine), who he would never get the opportunity to fully know or understand. Her mysterious disappearance right at the eve of war tears a cavern in his life, which he desperately seeks to fill or remedy during the lonely years in which he must come to terms with her loss.

Psychology and mental fragility is a theme exemplified by the people and patients working and living at Schloss Seeblick, a sanatorium Anton visits to research for a magazine article he is commissioned to write. One of the employees there is Lena, the other half of this story, a defiant young woman struggling to make the best of the difficult hand life has dealt her. To understand and appreciate how Anton and Lena are thrown together really demands you to read their stories.

I wouldn’t say that there’s deep hidden messaging here, or anything of that gravity. There is some exploration of the vulnerability of the human mind and, as historical fiction, interesting insight into the dynamics of Austrian politics in the between-war period. However, most of all, I would say that this is simply great storytelling. The plot neither skips along, nor dawdles. The narrative intrigues, and could seemingly go in any direction – especially with the unknown fate of Delphine always in the background – yet ends up almost perfectly, with great warmth. (Delphine’s story is also eventually pieced together, providing closure for both Anton and the reader.)

All in all, it’s very satisfying.

 

Favourite Character: It’s either Anton or Lena… at a push, I’d say Lena… but you choose.



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