Elizabeth's Reviews > The Sea

What on earth did I just read? The art didn't really appeal to me; it looked hastily drawn, even amateurish. The characters kept changing a bit from image to image; sometimes the protagonist's fingers would look disproportionately small, or his jawline would change shape a little. It seemed less an artistic decision and more like a few careless mistakes. It was jarring.

The plot was pretty well nonexistent. I guess it was supposed to be an allegory? Or maybe the protagonist is mad? (Or maybe I was, to keep reading?) This wasn't a little bit of ambiguity: it was just a bunch of bizarre moments strung together, too vague to have meaning. This wasn't like that famous optical illusory picture that could look like either a duck or a bunny; this felt more like an inkblot test, designed to absorb whatever meaning someone imposes on it. The story doesn't make sense, the characters aren't all that interesting, and there is therefore not much opportunity for me to become emotionally invested.

Still, it wasn't a total loss. I liked a little of the characters' banter. I was an English major, so when the characters started tossing out creative synonyms for common complaints, I grinned. It was funny. I also liked the book's length. The author made a point, did it succinctly, and trusted the book to stand on it. (I don't think it was a successful book, but that's not the point.) The point is that this author did not feel the need to expound on the book's themes. She did not love to hear herself talk. She trusted in the book's own strengths and didn't belabor her points or bore her readers.

The book's biggest strength was its setting. The ocean, the sky, the boat. The inclusion of different knots, and the mention of various boat-parts (which felt a bit like name dropping, or, I guess, nautical-vocabulary-dropping, but which was still fun). They stereotypical crusty old sailor. The archetype of the waiting woman. The loneliness of it all. The raw beauty of nature. Death.

I think this author was trying for a visual poem of sorts, but it's just not cohesive enough to work as a book or artsy enough to work as a literary fever-dream IMO. It reminds me a little of James Joyce, but visually; there is a stream-of-consciousness style that is vaguely reminiscent of Joyce's distinctive tone, but again, there isn't a lot of substance here. I wouldn't rule out the possibility of reading more by this author. I think I can see what the intent was here, but the execution disappointed. It may be that Villadsen's craft will improve in later stories.