This was a complex read. We learn quickly that Mona has gone through something traumatic that she isn’t able to confront yet. Also that there is a mystery with someone she knows called Sandrita. She heads to this literary festival in Sweden and interacts with a smattering of eclectic writers. As the weekend with the writers progresses, Mona is constantly vaping THC and numbing her thoughts with any substance she has, presumably not to confront the hinted trauma. The writers give their takes on the enigmatic world of literature, how it interacts with humanity in the forms of love, hate, oppression, or whatever their choice of emotional medium. Eventually, Mona comes to remember what happened to her in a chilling recount. The book climaxes right at the end when the festival concludes with an ancient Nordic poet showing up and calling up the presence of an Icelandic  god up to crucify them all for their choice of writing for vanity. 
   The book almost lost me a bit at the end, but I’ve reconciled with it. I don’t think Mona was ever alive. The whole book was her descent into her afterlife, post-attack. The wounds described by her when discussing with Sven are not ones that would be easily covered by her silk scarf she so meticulously wore. This experience was her mind coming to terms with her death. I still don’t understand the significance of Sandrita, whether that was a metaphor of sorts for Mona’s physical body or just someone she was able to relate to. In all, this book was a beautiful read and prompted me to think a lot about why anyone can or should write. I felt so deeply for Mona, more so the more I learned. I’d love to reread this in a year or so and see if there’s any further understanding I could garner from it.