This Icelandic novel is told from the point of the view of the the author's late, schizophrenic brother. It is lyrically written, or lyrically translated at least, though the Icelandic woman who gave it to me said the prose is even more beautiful in the original. It is also funny, with the mad characters in the psychiatric hospital limned with humor and compassion rather than the more common cliched, condescending quirks.
Yet the narrator does not shy away from what he calls his "darkness" and his "night," and calmly relates his acts of violence and nightmarish fugue states in an almost detached voice. There is no plot per se. Mostly, the book outlines all the people and incidents that have shaped the narrator, the memories of which sustain him in his isolation. Written with a light touch, it is nonetheless one of the most penetrating and moving books about mania I've ever read.