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.