Poetry changes lives

Wow. That was quite something. Like Moby-Dick, Kai Erik’s Paha Kirja (The Evil Book) is unlike any novel I’ve read before—though in a completely different way to Melville’s book.

Reading The Evil Book (2015, Otava) book reminded me of my favourite kind of literature: stories that rise above the mundane and self-evident, and made me question why I would ever settle for anything less. For me, the most enjoyable books tell an entirely new kind of a story, or with entirely new kind of characters, or in an entirely new kind of way. I want to be questioned, challenged, woken up by the book—and that, by the way, doesn’t mean the book will be a struggle to read. So many blurbs I see in bookstores these days seem to me to be about circumstances and people we are much too familiar with and have already witnessed in numerous films, other books, in our own lives. I can see the appeal in wanting to read a story that speaks directly to us by way of familiarity, but I often find that the writers who do write about something new or using a new approach manage to say more profound things about our reality and everyday lives than those who strive to describe it.

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The Åbo Akademi humanities building in which many of the events take place.

Right, rant over. The Evil Book is what you would call humanist horror as it’s set within the literature department of the Swedish-speaking Åbo Akademi University in Turku, Finland. The main characters are one of the department’s literature professors, the 50-something Mickel Backman, nicknamed Iron Man by the students due to his bad back; and the literature student Calle Hollender, who is struggling to find enough interest to do any of his coursework and prefers instead to dabble in stand up, smoke weed and watch Netflix. The events kick off when one of Mickel’s students, the talented but self-destructive Pasi Maars tells him he wants to write a dissertation on poetry collection by an obscure 1920s modernist called Leander Granlund. The collection was never published, and it carries a horrifying reputation of making anyone who reads it kill themselves. Mickel is shocked by the sudden mention of Granlund: turns out one of his friends from his own student days committed suicide after going mad writing a Master’s thesis on the poems.

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Gone whaling

Herman Melville‘s classic Moby-Dick (1851) is a great book and unlike any other novel I’ve read, but I’ve been at it for so long that I’m very happy to see the back of it!

I first cracked it open in May 2015 on a ferry back to Helsinki from Tallinn, Estonia, where I’d bought it in a nice little bookshop. It all started so well: how lovely to read about “getting to sea” on the gentle glimmering waves of the Baltic Sea! Fine, Melville’s a bit verbose here and there, but Ishmael‘s witty remarks and explorations on shore, such as sharing a bed with the Polynesian harpooner Queequeg at an inn, make up for it. Ishmael meets the broody Ahab, the captain of the Pequod and a man on a mission to kill the whale that maimed his leg—all good. It’s only when the long whale hunting journey begins in earnest that my attention started to waver.

Moby-Dick is about whales, and one whale in particular. The premise is very straightforward: Ahab wants to find the monstrous white whale called Moby-Dick, dissimilar to any other whale cruising the bottomless waters of the worlds, and kill it. This jolly pair have met before, and thanks to that encounter Ahab now clunks around with a wooden leg. Ishmael is the narrator of the story, and hovers somewhere between an omniscient narrator and an active participant in the story as a sailor on the Pequod.

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