Book Review: Handing the Undead by John Ajvide Lindqvist

Title: Handling the Undead (Hanteringen av odöda)
Author: John Ajvide Lindqvist
Translator: Ebba Segerberg
Published: New York: Thomas Dunne Books, 2010 (2005)
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 384
Total Page Count: 92,696
Text Number: 265
Read Because: won in a GoodReads First Reads giveaway
Review: In Stockholm, Sweden, a freak electrical storm is plaguing the populace—and bringing the dead back to life. A grieving grandfather, loving husband, pair of female psychics, and the entire Stockholm population struggle to cope with their loved ones, returned from the grave as the strange, incomprehensible reliving. As with Let the Right One In, Lindqvist approaches a horror staple from a new angle: Handling the Undead is as much about the emotional impact on the living as it is the circumstances of the undead. But, again like Let the Right One In, Handing the Undead is plagued by a bland narrative voice. With Segerberg translating both books, I still don't know whether I should blame writer or translator for this failing. Regardless, the lackluster style deadens the emotional impact of the book; that there are multiple points of view, and so each receives less attention and depth, makes Undead feel even more shallow and less effecting than it has the potential to be (especially in comparison to the much more successful Let the Right One In).

The book, however, is not an entire loss: I applaud it as refreshing take on this tired trope, and had I not read the same premise better executed in the past*, I probably would have been impressed with Undead based on that alone. However imperfect, it still has moments which are haunting, intriguing, and—on occasion—horrifying. But with a lackluster voice and a deadened emotional aspect, Undead just doesn't offer much: its zombies are unique but hazy, and their function and rules feel made up on the spot; the plot is compelling but it never quite captures the reader, and so while this is an easy book to pick up and get into, it's almost as easy to put down. I give Handing the Undead a mild recommendation: I appreciate what it tries to be, and the book is not a waste of time—but it's not particularly worth the time, either.

Review posted here on Amazon.com.



This new edition comes out on September 28th.

I will say, the cover for it is incredible—and rather frightening. ETA: I take that back: my ARC cover is wonderful, but the hardcover edit of the same image is horrendous. What a pity. I'm disappointed with the title, however: I initially read it as "Handing the Dead" which seems, to me, a classier choice; "Undead" is a bit cheesy. Although, for all I know, "odöda" isn't half as overused as "undead" has come to be.

* For a beautiful, haunting example of the subdued, emotional zombie story, I recommend Catherynne M. Valente's "The Days of the Flaming Motorcycles"

I am rereading Wuthering Heights: To love this miserable book.

It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more himself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightening, or frost from fire.

—Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë, 63

It seems, to me, that it is almost cool these days to hate Wuthering Heights, to deride it as non-romantic, to argue that it's actually about two miserable people that make each other even more miserable as if that's some sort of revelation.

Wuthering Heights is not a Romeo-and-Juliet romance, star-crossed lovers, the perfect pair thwarted by outside forces; Cathy and Heathcliff thwart themselves, and that's the point. It is a story of soulmates who are horrible lovers, a story of people fated to one another who push each other away, it's a story not of what the world can do to you but what you can do to yourself. And that, to me, is more the tragedy: when you create your own hell, you suffer all the more in it.

You loved me—then what right had you to leave me? What right—answer me—for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery, and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart—you have broken it—and in breaking it, you have broken mine.

—Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë, 126

And for all of that I still think it's one of the best love stories ever told—because it is a story about love, a thing as strong and violent and real as a force of nature, a thunderstorm, a hurricane. And it is as awesome, as beautiful, and as heartbreaking as that sort of natural disaster. Catherine is selfish, hurtful, over-dramatic; Heathcliff is as brutal as a beast and equally without conscience. They are as miserable to the rest of the world as they are to one another, and I would want to know neither of them. But they are both vivid, and real, and I admire a soul so strongly blazing, a heart so boldly beating, as can feel that sort of passion and contain that sort of love—even as I pity them for it.

To romanticize it is to miss the point. To dismiss it for being as miserable as it is is to get stuck at Reading Comprehension 101. To see it as both romantic and miserable, as beautiful and tragic, is to appreciate the book.

"Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there—not in heaven—not perished—where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens—Catherine Earnsaw, may you not rest, as long as I am living! You said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe—I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!"

—Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë, 132

The plot is seems sillier this time around than it has in the past—and silly and over-dramatic it certainly is. But it's gothic literature—silly and over-dramatic is half the joy. And behind that silliness, the raw and bleeding heart of this book drives me to tears. It is not simply enough to say "I am rereading Wuthering Heights," although in a way that is all I can say. I wear the statement like a badge, an indicator of all there is behind it, all that I can't quite find the words for. I am rereading Wuthering Heights, and I love it.