It starts in a small village in northern Sweden. You can hear it in the words — vowels stretched a little longer, consonants softened or sharpened in ways that outsiders might notice but insiders barely think about. In Din vilja sitter i skogen, Mattias Timander’s debut novel, that local voice hums in the background of every scene. Until, one day, the main character leaves.
Siv Strömquist, a seasoned linguist and literary critic, has been paying close attention to what happens next. In her review for Språktidningen, she points out something subtle but striking: as the protagonist moves from the Norrland village to Stockholm, the dialect fades. The language becomes more neutral, more “standard Swedish” — not because it’s better or worse, but because that’s what happens when people cross into new social and geographic worlds. She’s seen it in real life, and here it’s happening in fiction with almost documentary precision.
By the time the character comes back home, the regional turns of phrase and vowel shapes return too, like an old sweater retrieved from the back of a closet. It’s not just stylistic flair — it’s the novel’s pulse. More than a decorative flourish, Strömquist suggests, this shifting speech pattern is a marker of belonging and identity. In Timander’s hands, the sounds of Norrland aren’t just background music; they tell a story all by themselves.
A Tale of Two Books
Timander’s novel is only half of Strömquist’s review. The other half belongs to Fredrik Sjöberg’s biography of the famed wildlife painter Bruno Liljefors. Here, the linguistic fascination isn’t about dialect at all — it’s about tone. Sjöberg’s prose, Strömquist notes, has a light touch, even when dealing with meticulous biographical detail. He blends humor, cultural history, and art criticism into something that feels effortlessly readable.
If Timander’s strength lies in capturing the sound of a place, Sjöberg’s genius is in making you want to keep turning pages, not because of cliffhangers, but because being in his company is simply enjoyable.
Why This Matters
What ties these two very different books together in Strömquist’s review is an appreciation for the how of storytelling, not just the what. In Timander’s novel, language becomes a map of a life: where you are, who you’re with, and how far you’ve traveled from where you started. In Sjöberg’s biography, it’s the narrative voice — wry, curious, and completely unpretentious — that pulls you in.
Both remind us that in literature, language isn’t just the vehicle for the story. Sometimes, it is the story.
💬 A question to linger on: When was the last time you read a book where the way the characters spoke — their dialect, rhythm, or turns of phrase — stayed with you longer than the actual plot?
If you’d like, I can also do a deep-dive magazine feature connecting the linguistic shifts in Timander’s novel to real-world sociolinguistic research on identity and code-switching — essentially showing why this isn’t just good writing, but an accurate reflection of how people’s speech changes when their lives do.