Book Review Norwegian Wood Novels & Stories

"Can we go to the bookshop?" They went. The shop occupied a converted house three streets over, with a resident dog named Duchess who greeted Noah by name and a whole shelf dedicated to field guides that Noah navigated with the confidence of a regular. He selected three books with careful deliberation — one on Pacific Northwest raptors, one a slim volume on migratory patterns he'd apparently been eyeing for weeks, and a third that surprised Adrian: a novel about a woman who builds something from nothing, its cover showing a small house under construction against a wide sky. "That one's for Mom," Noah said, setting it on the counter with the others. "She'll like it. Because she's Mom."

Liam POV The wind in Norway felt really good and homy. Every morning, I told myself I’d get used to it. The quietness, the open roads, the way people nodded politely and kept to themselves. But after nearly two months, I still couldn’t breathe right in this place. “Try to blend in,” Harper had said. “Stay off the radar.” “Hard to do when your instincts scream every time a branch cracks.” I always replied. I walked to the edge of the woods again. There was no particular reason. Just the usual scent check, energy scan, terrain memory. The soil here held no pack. No old blood. No buried bones. But the wind was wrong.

No one has found the bodies yet, though, so theres still a lingering hope out there that they're alive. I sigh as I crawl under the thick quilt, flicking on the lamo beside me as I pull out my latest find at Barnes and Nobels: The Winter Garden by the famous Kristin Hannah. This woman's books are truly amazing. Then, after an hour long reading session, I find my eyes beginning to shut against my will, so I set down the book on the bedside table and shut off the lamp. ~ The next morning...

What if five years weren't enough to erase the hurt he'd caused? He began reading, losing himself in Nora's world of werewolves and magic that was surprisingly close to their reality, yet fantastical in its own way. Her protagonist, a male wolf seeking forgiveness from a female he had wronged, struck too close to home. Otto's chest tightened as he read scene after scene that mirrored their own history, reimagined through Nora's talented prose.

I wandered through the compound until I found myself in the library, as usual. I browsed the shelves for a while before pulling out a thick book about the northern territories. The book was old, the pages yellowed and crinkled with age, but the hand-drawn illustrations were still beautiful. I got comfortable in one of the chairs near a window and began to read. Most of the content was about trade routes and pack histories, but one chapter caught my attention. It described the far northern mountains—the ones beyond the Thornwood, where no one ever set foot.

I try it on in the mirror, the fabric draping nicely over my shoulders, and buy it without hesitation. Next is a small bookstore tucked in a narrow alley, its shelves lined with English translations of Norwegian literature and travel guides. I pick up a slim volume on fjord geology, flipping through pages filled with stunning photographs, the paper smooth under my fingers. The act of browsing, of choosing something just because it sparks joy, eases the tightness in my chest a little. Lunch is a quiet affair at a harborside café….fresh salmon on dark bread, the fish flaky and rich, paired with strong coffee that warms me from the inside.

I don’t know how, but we understood each other without words. We’re walking side by side taking in the beauty of this part of Norway where the littlest bits of white snow covers parts of the green. I never thought I would be able to see snow in my life. Heck, I never thought I would even see the woods again, but now I was here, admiring both. Some time has passed, but still, each time I go out, I just can’t help but take it all in and admire the beauty of everything. For a second, I closed my eyes and took a deep inhale.

I could never pronounce that on a first trial. Willow laughed gently. “Oh, the mute queen. I can't even pronounce her name. Hell, Andrea, you are good.” She exclaimed. “I love that story. You know, one author wrote about that. I think the book was called ‘The Silent Patient’. You should read it. You always liked stories with gods and swords.” “I will read it,” Andrea said with a nod. I pushed my plate aside. “Speaking of stories, I’ve got a new one to tell. I’m getting a Christmas tree.”

A fireplace was at the far end, which wasn’t lit but I already imagined myself seated by the crackling of mahogany and oak wood under the moonlight, reading a book and forgetting I was married to a tyrant. I couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of a certain book. It had dust all over it, sanded with purple paint that had seen better days. It was almost like it called out to me. Then there was the center desk, and a high ridden chair which probably belonged to my mate. I gulped hard from staring at it. “So….” Lenore finally broke the silence, “What do you think??” “I—-“ pausing to take a deep breath, “I think it’s beautiful.”

My legs, which had felt like lead, felt much better. As I was going upstairs, my eye caught the bookshelf. Luke had returned some borrowed books a few days ago. On a whim, I went to the shelf and took the book he had borrowed upstairs. Inside the book was a postcard of the Northern Lights in Norway. The postcard had no special markings, but it was exquisite and beautiful, with a great texture. My parents loved to travel when they were young. After I was born, I became their little tag-along on trips, visiting many places with them.