Each story could stand on its own; one of the pleasures of the novel is the slow revelation of their connections. This is a tale of heritage, a topic hardly unique to Iceland, and yet it was impossible not to feel that it shares many of the same preoccupations—genealogical and topographical—with classic 13th- and 14th-century Icelandic family sagas ... The structure of Your Absence Is Darkness is best described as a series of recursions: The stories build and break apart, yield to other stories, emerge again later, sometimes at length, sometimes in fragments, flashbacks, single words. The effect is kaleidoscopic; as the narrative turns, pieces shift, stories merge, themes dilate and contract. I fantasized about an edition printed in color, each narrative strand a hue of its own, the shuttling, shuffling syntax fractal in its effect ... In linking remembering to re-creation, he uses amnesia to bring author and reader together as common travelers into the unknown. For what are we upon opening a new book if not amnesiac? We must have our new lives created for us. Either it must be explicitly explained, or we must piece together clues, must eavesdrop. We too appear in the churchyard without memory, and meet the world anew.
Ambitious ... A compelling opening, Stefánsson, like his narrator, seems initially bewildered by where, exactly, to tread ... Stefánsson’s habit of repeating certain phrases also taxed my patience, but by the latter half of the novel, I admit, I couldn’t put it down.
Like fellow Scandinavian authors Jon Fosse and Karl Ove Knausgaard, Mr. Stefánsson joins plainspoken depictions of daily life to intimations of mysticism, creating a spectral, haunted atmosphere. The setting is perhaps best understood as a purgatory of the lovelorn, where the persistence of grief and desire holds the characters in a kind of waking trance. 'To be alone and without you, that’s death,' one says in a pointed paraphrase of the Romantic poet Friedrich Hölderlin. Questioning, vulnerable and openly sentimental, this is an absorbing commemoration of what the author calls the paradox that rules our existence, the vivifying joy and paralyzing sorrow of loving another person.
Stefánsson’s historical meanderings, including matters of faith, sex, and religion (Kierkegaard is repeatedly mentioned), can test a reader’s patience. Yet in evoking melancholy, Stefánsson (and translator Roughton) have ably elicited the feeling that 'it can be so difficult to live that it’s visible from the moon.' And his descriptions of the northern Icelandic landscape are elegantly written and a perfect match for the vibe ... A relentlessly somber yet lyrical study of grief across decades.
...an astonishing, free-wheeling narrative of an amnesiac’s search for meaning ... What makes this so irresistible is the narrator’s constant optimism as he probes profound questions from within the murk of his consciousness ('Give me darkness, and then I’ll know where the light is'). Stefánsson is poised to make his mark on the world stage.
