The Blue Fox is a short novel set in rural Iceland in 1868. It follows Reverend Baldur Skuggason on his hunt for an elusive blue fox, as well as the herbalist Fridrik B. Fridjonsson, who is having to bury a young woman with Down's Syndrome he had rescued a few years before.

"The night too was cold and of the longer variety."

The story almost feels mythical, like a fairy tale on patience, on revenge. This feeling is reinforced by Sjon's atmospheric writing, which tend to feel more like poetry than prose. His words are immersive, like a painting, and take us on this magical journey in snowy Iceland.

"The sun warms the man's white body, and the snow, melting with a diffident creaking, passes for birdsong."

It is quiet, light and still just like the snow, yet cold, heavy and powerful just like a storm.

I love Richard Derus so much for introducing me to Sjon.

This book, this wonderful, brilliant novella is just so perfect.

On the surface, the novel/novella is about a hunt for a blue fox. The writing in the opening section, describing the land and the fox itself is powerful. You are there.

But the book is also about life in a faraway place, and the patterns and strangeness of life. Is the fox a fox or something more?

Sjon, to his credit, doesn't really answer that question. The book is better for that. It was such a wonderful read.

Reverend Baldur hunts a beguiling blue fox. Fridrik, a naturalist, faces the loss of Abba, a young woman in his care. These stories weave together in a not wholly unforeseen way in this icy, poetic novella by Icelandic writer, Sjón, relayed in four intersecting movements.

Not sure I'd call it a fairy tale as others have, but it does tread into fable/parable territory. I can't help but feel like I'm missing out on some references as a non-native, but ultimately, it's Sjón's cutting prose that steals the show. He writes coolly, deliberately - some paragraphs or sentences receive their own page to impart their impact. His visuals are piercing: Reverend Baldur, sitting naked on the snow with his picnic, waiting for his clothes to dry. The Blue Fox, spinning around on snow like a top. The jagged mountains and farms of Iceland. The shipwreck on which Abba was discovered.

It left a lingering melancholy, but didn't pack a huge emotional punch - which is fine, I needed sort of an emotional haven after the intensity of Night Film. Still, a few extra pieces on the relationship between Fridrik and Abba would've fleshed out The Blue Fox's heart, and offered respite from the harsh truths it unearths.

Overall, an entrancing read, not quite a thriller, but certainly with a sense of urgency - one I devoured in two short sittings - and absolutely worth spending time on to marvel at Sjón's craft and dwell in his visions of old Iceland, and his sense of divine justice. Wishing I had picked up the two other books of his that were available at Portsmouth's Book and Bar (worth a visit if you're ever along the New Hampshire seacoast), where I found this.

Many thanks to Mr. S.Penkevich, whose lovely review moved me to pick this up, and to whoever designed the beautiful covers for these english translations, which helped trigger my memory when I came across it at the bookstore. One of the things I love about this site is discovering things I might not have otherwise, and I'm not sure Sjón's work would've found me without GR - but I'm glad it did.

Interesting Icelandic tale of magical realism that is part fairytale and part mystery. I had to read the last part twice to understand the understated implications, and once I had the “aha” moment I decided that I quite enjoyed this magical little tale.

I was confused most of the time as to what was happening or why, but I loved the setting. It's a small book, so I think I will re-read it sometime again to pick up whatever I missed the first time reading it.

With an enchanting play of colors they flitted light and quick about the great stage of the heavens, in fluttering golden dresses, their tumbling pearl necklaces scattering here and there in their wild caperings.
After a few pages I didn't expect to enjoy this book. I then fell (almost literally) to some minor infection and as I rested, I continued to read, and the text reminded me of those paper flowers which blossom when immersed in the water. Of course, there are myriad themes close to me in the book: solitude, poetry, the disabled and obviously Iceland. I found myself swept along and I could smell the peat burning, taste the grimy coffee and imagine the peregrinations of the elusive fox. The Blue Fox isn't a novel as much as a story elongated with line breaks, perhaps a prose poem by other means, though hardly a distillation.