21 Jul Book Review of Always Home, Always Homesick
Finding Home in Hannah Kent’s Always Home, Always Homesick
As someone who has long been captivated by Iceland’s mystique, Hannah Kent’s Always Home, Always Homesick felt like an irresistible invitation to explore the rugged landscapes of both the heart and mind. Having first encountered her poignant storytelling in Burial Rites, I was curious to dive into her memoir and uncover the threads that weave her life with the enchanting but stark Nordic island.
Kent’s memoir is a delicately layered narrative shaped by her deep connection to Iceland. It begins with her memorable exchange as a 17-year-old who embarks on a whirlwind adventure filled with language barriers, cultural revelations, and unexpected culinary encounters. One of my favorite moments was her hilarious account of tasting whale blubber for the first time, likening it to “like biting into a lipstick. Made of fish” (pg. 74). That humor aptly captures Kent’s ability to blend laughter and reflection, seamlessly illustrating the often disorienting experience of immersing oneself in a new culture.
The memoir effortlessly transitions into the genesis of Kent’s acclaimed novel, Burial Rites, grounding her personal journey in a historical context. I found the exploration of Agnes Magnúsdóttir’s tragic fate to be hauntingly beautiful. Kent’s fascination with Agnes—the last woman executed in Iceland—adds an intriguing layer of depth. As she recounts the eerie coincidences that occurred during her research, I could almost feel the ethereal tug of Agnes guiding her story. “I come from a line of women who sometimes do dream things that are other and strange,” Kent writes (pg. 2), which artfully sets the tone for a journey filled with mystery and introspection.
The memoir ebbs and flows between Kent’s early years in Iceland and her subsequent academic pursuits, maintaining a steady pace that invites reflection. Her evocative prose shines when she describes the landscapes that shaped her—and I was left enchanted by her accounts of Icelandic food, particularly the homemade kleina and rich porridge. In one poignant moment, she notes, “But the truth is that all this cooking is an act of grief,” (pg. 151) which beautifully encapsulates a universal struggle to bridge the gap between longing and belonging.
Yet, it was her exploration of linguistic purism and the cultural significance of names that struck a particular chord with me. The presence of Iceland’s Personal Names Committee, ensuring that baby names reflect their heritage, feels both rigid and profoundly meaningful. It is a reminder of the importance of roots in a world that perpetually rushes forward, which resonates deeply with anyone who has ever felt the weight of home.
Always Home, Always Homesick is not just a memoir; it’s a meditation on identity, storytelling, and the haunting echoes of the past. As someone who has long felt a kinship with the landscapes and tales of Iceland, I found myself deeply moved by Kent’s vulnerable yet insightful narrative. This book is a treasure for anyone intrigued by the art of writing, the beauty of language, and the complexities of home.
If you appreciate experimental memoirs that intertwine personal history with broader cultural narratives—particularly in the vein of Robert Macfarlane—you will find Always Home, Always Homesick an enlightening and heartwarming read. It provides not just a glimpse into Kent’s journey, but a compelling exploration of what it means to carry two homes in one heart. As I closed the book, I felt a renewed sense of wonder about the world and my connection to it, something that only literature can truly evoke.
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