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JAGANNATH

(stories)

Introduction

^{by Elizabeth Hand}

It’s rare, almost unheard of, to encounter an author so extraordinarily gifted she appears to have sprung full-blown into the literary world, like Athena from the head of Zeus. But we live in extraordinary times, and with Karin Tidbeck, we appear to have gotten the artist our times deserve.

A hundred years ago, the great fantasist Lord Dunsany wrote of the world beyond the fields we know. With the ascent of fantasy as the dominant popular literary form of the early twenty-first century, we’ve seen that world grow increasingly gentrified, commodified, and mainstreamed. This is a long way of saying that, when it comes to speculative fiction, it takes a lot to surprise me. I can’t think of when I last read a collection that blew me away the way that Jagannath has, or one that’s left me somewhat at a loss to describe just how strange and beautiful and haunting these tales are.

Of course, Tidbeck’s appearance on the literary scene isn’t quite as sudden as it seems to me. She’s been publishing for a decade, and many of the stories contained herein first appeared in her native Sweden, where they were collected in Vem är Arvid Pekon? English translations of several of these tales have been published in U. S. and U. K. magazines and anthologies. In 2010 she attended the prestigious Clarion Writer’s Workshop, a longtime proving ground for writers who have gone on to become major voices in the field. She’s also one of the few writers of the fantastic to have received a grant from the Swedish Authors Fund.

Yet there’s still something startling about the presence of so many remarkable pieces in such a deceptively slender volume. In its feverish intensity and sublimely estranging effects, her work sometimes evokes that of James M. Tiptree Jr. (Alice Sheldon); in particular, “Aunts” and the title story can hold their own with Tiptree’s classic depiction of alien consciousness, “Love is the Plan the Plan is Death. ”

But Tidbeck’s writing is more generous and far emotionally engaged than Tiptree’s. Even when the inexplicable occurs, as it does throughout these tales, a reader responds as Tidbeck’s characters do, with an underlying empathy. Their sense of loss or astonishment or melancholy resignation never trumps the deeper sense of recognition that, as Hamlet observed, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy. As in “Augusta Prima,” where the title character asks,

“I have to know… What is the nature of the world?”

The djinneya smiled with both rows of teeth.

“Which one?”

In an interview earlier this year, Tidbeck spoke of the crepuscular (real) world where she lives in Sweden:

We spend a lot of time in twilight, which is a liminal condition, a no-man’s land. The light has an eerie and melancholy quality. I suppose this has carried over into my writing as well, both in the sense of the eerie and melancholy, but also the sensation of having stepped sideways into another world where the sun has stopped in its course.