Book Review: Always Home, Always Homesick by Hannah Kent
There’s something magical about the way a place can pull at your heartstrings, isn’t there? When I first stumbled upon Always Home, Always Homesick by Hannah Kent, I was immediately drawn to the notion of a memoir intertwined with landscapes and memories, particularly one that revolves around Iceland—a land I’ve always dreamed of visiting. As a fan of Kent’s historical fiction, particularly her haunting novel Burial Rites, I was eager to dive into her personal journey and discover how her deep connection with Iceland shaped her writing.
Kent’s memoir begins as an exploration of her youthful year spent in Iceland at 17, participating in a Rotary exchange program. Her adventures with host families, learning the language, and navigating cultural intricacies are depicted with a delightful blend of humor and introspection. One of my favorite anecdotes is her first encounter with whale blubber, where she deftly remarks, "It’s like biting into a lipstick. Made of fish." (Page 74). This vivid imagery not only made me chuckle but also set the tone for the quirky and candid observations that Kent offers throughout her story.
But there’s a depth beneath these travel experiences that resonates. As she reflects on her homesickness—first for Australia and then paradoxically for Iceland—this beautifully woven memoir unfolds into a meditative exploration of belonging and identity. I found her reflections on the transformative power of languages particularly striking, reminding me of how words carry more than just meanings; they encapsulate our connections to people and places.
The transition to the latter half of the book was seamless yet poignant, as Kent delves into her research on Agnes Magnúsdóttir, the protagonist of Burial Rites. I was captivated by her dedication to understanding Agnes—not just as a historical figure but as a tragic woman whose story is interlaced with elements of superstition and the supernatural. The passages discussing the inexplicable connections she and others felt to Agnes are both eerie and compelling. For example, she writes, “I come from a line of women who sometimes do dream things that are other and strange…” (Page 2). This candid acknowledgment of intuition adds a fascinating layer to her narrative, though I wished for a deeper exploration of these experiences.
Kent’s writing style is evocative, drawing you into the stark beauty of Iceland’s landscapes and the warm memories of home-cooked delicacies like kleina (Icelandic donuts) and porridge made from fresh cow’s milk. Her reflections on cooking as "an act of grief" (Page 151) struck a chord within me, illustrating how food and memories intertwine in the heart. I could feel her longing and the nostalgia for a place that had, in many ways, become a part of her.
Always Home, Always Homesick is not just about the physical journey through Iceland; it’s about the emotional landscapes we traverse in our lives and the stories that shape us. I can wholeheartedly recommend this memoir to anyone who loves introspective travel writing or has ever felt the bittersweet pang of homesickness. It’s a story of discovery, longing, and the transformative power of literature that speaks to the writer in all of us.
In conclusion, reading Kent’s memoir was like having an intimate conversation with a kindred spirit, one who understands that home is a constant interplay of absence and presence. If you’re looking for a book that enriches the heart and soul while inviting you to reflect on your own connections, then Always Home, Always Homesick should be at the top of your reading list.
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