Reflection on When the Cranes Fly South by Lisa Ridzén
From the moment I stumbled upon When the Cranes Fly South, I felt an inexplicable tug at my curiosity. Perhaps it was the allure of a “sensationell debut” that’s garnered a whirlwind of acclaim and has flown across the pages of seventeen countries. The weighty promise of a deep exploration of aging and memory pulled me in, and I wanted to unravel the layers of Lisa Ridzén’s creation. Yet, nestled within the praise, I found myself walking a different path, one marked by a mixture of admiration and reservation.
At the heart of Ridzén’s novel is Bo, an elderly man navigating the bittersweet landscape of his life, accompanied by his loyal dog, Sixten. As he faces the realities of aging — illustrated through encounters with his son Hans, and the haunting, silent presence of his wife Fredrika, now in a dementia facility — I was drawn into his world. The use of “du” as a direct address to Fredrika is a poignant choice, making the narrative feel intimate, though it also places a unique distance between reader and character.
What struck me most were Ridzén’s bold portrayals of bodily decline and emotional turmoil. She doesn’t shy away from uncomfortable realities — the embarrassing slips and the relentless reminders of mortality like “kissblöja” and physical deterioration. Unlike many of us who may shy away from discussing such raw truths, Ridzén dives right in. It’s this willingness to confront the unglamorous facets of life that feels authentic, yet I found the emotional depth of Bo’s reflections somewhat idealized.
While Bo’s introspection often mirrored modern psychological discussions around masculinity and feelings, I felt it was slightly contrived. His processing seemed crafted for readers seeking meaning rather than a genuine representation of an elderly man’s inner life. In this lies my central critique: while I appreciate Ridzén’s heartfelt intentions, Bo often felt like an embodiment of what we wish older men could express, rather than a true reflection of experience.
Moreover, the supporting characters felt like archetypes, from the saintly healthcare providers to the perfect mothers. This over-simplification left the narrative feeling somewhat curated, leading me to ponder the reasons we gravitate toward such idealized portrayals, especially in the context of death. Perhaps it’s an attempt to find comfort, but it left me desiring more complexity and grit.
The writing shines in its vividness; Ridzén crafts scenes that viscerally ground us in Bo’s world. However, I wrestled with its pacing. Moments of startling clarity about life, death, and untold regrets often felt smothered by the narrative’s insistence on neat conclusions — a common pitfall in feel-good literature.
In conclusion, When the Cranes Fly South is a gentle exploration of life that may resonate deeply with those seeking a reflective take on aging. Readers who find solace in tales that blend reality with glossed-over sweetness may find their hearts warmed. However, for those who, like me, have experienced the rawness of farewell, this book might feel like a closed door. Ridzén’s debut is neither a complete miss nor a universal hit; it’s a thought-provoking journey that prompts discussions on how we choose to frame life’s ending — one I invite others to dive into with an open heart and a contemplative mind.
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