Der Wanderer auf dem Eis • Volter Kilpi

At the end of last year, two books by the Finnish author Volter Kilpi were published by Mare Verlag. One is the small collection of three stories, The Wanderer on the Ice, which is the subject of this post, and the other is the extensive novel In the Parlour of Alastalo. Before I venture into his hefty epic, I wanted to start with the shorter stories to see how much I enjoy Kilpi’s style and way of writing. In this post, I’ll share my impressions of the small book.

The three stories in this book are about inhabitants of the Finnish archipelago. While Kilpi’s longer novels focus on the prominent and wealthy members of the island communities, this collection turns its attention to three people on the fringes of society — impoverished individuals reflecting on their difficult lives. In the first story, The Wanderer on the Ice, an old, humble fisherman has gathered juniper wood on a sled and sets out on the arduous journey home across the frozen sea. Along the way, he recalls his life, marked by hard work and broken family relationships. The second story, Lundström from Kaaskeri, tells of a failed sea captain who likewise reflects on his past and describes his meager existence as a private tutor. Finally, The Sailor’s Widow recounts, again retrospectively, the life of an old woman who lost her husband in middle age and has since led a poor and lonely life.

I found the first story, The Wanderer on the Ice, the most successful of the three. However, all three short stories share the same theme: they explore poverty and the harshness of life, while also providing a poignant insight into the everyday existence and, above all, the inner thoughts of these people. As you read, you can feel the transience of life; you sense the bitterness with which these three islanders look back on their days gone by. The loneliness of these elderly characters settles like a heavy cloak over each tale. Reading them deeply moved me and filled me with melancholy, for it once again shows how hard life was for many — and how cruel, beyond the grand catastrophes of history that literature so often focuses on, the steady flow of an ordinary human life can be.

When I read the blurb and sample of the large novel In the Parlour of Alastalo, I was immediately reminded of Horcynus Orca. I read and reviewed that book years ago, and when Kilpi was described as a Finnish Joyce or Proust, I wondered whether not only the themes and cultural perspective but also his language would justify such a comparison. The stories certainly suggest so, and it is particularly the voice that Kilpi conjures in the reader’s mind that is so remarkable. His prose creates a flow of thought shaped by the characters’ inner monologues — sentences that loop and wander just as one’s own thoughts do. Yet, unlike exaggerated stream-of-consciousness writing, his narration remains focused and readable, maintaining a clear narrative thread. Some sentences are exceptionally well crafted, so beautiful that I had to reread them several times. These long, flowing sentences reminded me of Horcynus Orca — they surge and swell like the sea, full of emotion, rich imagery, and musical rhythm. Here’s one not-too-long example that beautifully reflects both the content and the tone of these stories, with that lovely, resonant cadence I couldn’t resist:

The days passed, the years slipped away. The days, the cool brightness of the mornings, the shimmering blue of the noons, the glorious fading of the evenings: like the golden weave of one long sunlit day — the whole splendor of life and its sparkling remembrance. (p. 32)

What gives this small collection of stories — and surely also Kilpi’s great novel — additional weight is the vivid portrayal of the culture of the Finnish archipelago dwellers. In that regard, the book also reminded me of Horcynus Orca, where we find a portrait of Sicilian fishermen, the Pellisquadre. The same occurs here, primarily through the many small details: descriptions of simple dwellings and crafts, such as when a protagonist gathers juniper wood to carve into wooden pegs during the long winter, later used in shipbuilding. This authenticity crystallizes most clearly in the voice with which Kilpi lets his characters think — a voice that emerges directly from their inner consciousness. The comparison with Joyce and Proust in the blurb is therefore quite apt, for by letting the reader experience the world of the islands through the characters’ memories, Kilpi indeed incorporates the technique of stream-of-consciousness into his storytelling.

I had never heard of the author Volter Kilpi before, and to me, that’s the mark of truly outstanding publishers — those who discover such writers and make their work newly accessible. Kilpi was born in 1874 in Kustavi, a community in the southwestern Finnish archipelago. The son of a sea captain, he absorbed countless stories from his father, which he later transformed into literature. Kilpi himself did not become a sailor; he studied in Helsinki and worked as a librarian, writing from an early age. After a pause of more than thirty years, he published In the Parlour of Alastalo and is now regarded as one of Finland’s most important authors. His stories are set in the 1860s, which surprised me a little given his birth year, though the community of his youth likely hadn’t changed much since then.

The little book is part of the small Mare Classics series and, with its simply printed linen cover, once again looks beautiful and feels wonderful in hand. The soft paper in particular makes reading a pleasure. The book includes a ribbon bookmark and a small slipcase open on both sides. Unlike the larger Mare Classics editions, it lacks thread stitching, but otherwise, it’s beautifully produced and of high quality — making it an excellent gift as well. Stefan Moster’s translation is solid and flows well, as does the afterword, which provides a brief but informative look at the author’s life and work.

Conclusion: Discovering Volter Kilpi — previously completely unknown to me — and seeing his work newly published in such excellent quality is what defines a truly great publisher, and Mare Verlag has done it again. These three stories not only give readers a fine introduction to Kilpi’s craft but also open up the society of the archipelago with impressive storytelling. The three tales portray outsiders of a once-thriving seafaring community and allow readers to immerse themselves in the characters’ minds as they look back on their hard, austere lives. I was deeply impressed — both by the language and the cultural insight. To compare Kilpi to the great authors of modernism is entirely justified; you can sense it within just a few lines. The book’s beautiful design — the linen binding, ribbon marker, soft paper, and slipcase — makes it a small work of art that I highly recommend.

Book information: Der Wanderer auf dem Eis • Volter Kilpi • Mare Verlag • 256 pages • ISBN 9783866486645