[REVIEW] The Wax Child, by Olga Ravn; translated from Danish by Martin Aitke

 

The Wax Child by Olga Ravn is an exercise of style and form, packaged in a story of witches, village rivalry and folklore. Sadly, nothing in this novel was able to drive the plot home, nor the writing. The "Wax Child" incessant monologue is straining and repetitive, and truly naive in taste. It appears like the impression that a non-reader has of intellectual and elevated writing rather than talent and effort. Allow me to present some examples.

Let me start from the opening chapter:

No one listens to a thing I say. Although I speak all the time. I am a lump of beeswax shaped in the image of a newborn child. I am no more than what may melt and stiffen again in the night. No one comes to me here. I lie and speak with my eyes. My family no longer exists, or rather: my kind of family, a very large one, no longer exists. And still I speak. A steady stream of words that slip from me without cessation, and I too am inclined to think it is often an embarrassment. But I cannot stop it, my mouth will not desist, though I don’t know how the words get out—I have no larynx, no vocal band, no tongue. But who does it interest? Children should be seen and not heard, as they say. 

This fractured style is truly uncommentable: unnecessary, carries no pathos and feels like a child of shitty TedTalks. But allow me to even point our the complete and total lack of meaning behind these words.

No one listens to a thing I say. Although I speak all the time. From these first words we are learning that this is a creature clearly in anguish, wishing to communicate with its environment but ignored for the most part. 

I am no more than what may melt and stiffen again in the night. Ok? This does not mean anything and it is not even pretty or elaborate, could have been easily cut from the word count.

I lie and speak with my eyes.  What? Like you try to communicate with your eyes? And lie? Like lie as in telling something untrue or lie as in being in an horizontal position? Both would be nonsensical, why would you lie?  No one comes to me here. So if you communicate with your eyes, would that not give us a hint of why you are being listened? SINCE NO ONE IS THERE. 

And still I speak. A steady stream of words that slip from me without cessation, and I too am inclined to think it is often an embarrassment. But I cannot stop it, my mouth will not desist, though I don’t know how the words get out—I have no larynx, no vocal band, no tongue. The words do not flow?????? If you cannot speak???? I beg of you to make sense because I cannot anymore

But who does it interest? Children should be seen and not heard, as they say.  But you just said no one comes there? So you cannot be even seen, what is this string of senseless gibberish.

And it just keeps on going, it is a gift that will never stop giving the absolute dullness of this woman.

I am a root, the moon, the stupid thing in your hand when you barter, money in coin, me. No one wants to eat me, but I am here for consuming. I was made a delicacy of shadows. Give to me not what you give me: eyes, attention, thoughts. I will have meat, human blood, a field of skin. The warmth that belongs to the firstborn under the willing arm, insufferable softness. Go to my lying place, I am awake. I begin to believe I need a mistress in order to prosper. Whoever reads this, said inside their skull by a voice that sounds like mine, shall be my mistress, my needle. I, a part of the earth’s crust, broken away and now in your hand, while in your mind you hold me, as though newborn.

First and foremost, I want to preface that I do not wish to be destructive or mean, but some of us could be planting potatoes and supporting society instead of publishing this level of absolute garbage. And it is the fault of the translator, that did not seem to see the low quality of it all, the editor that green-lighted it and the complete brainless reviewer that brought her in a list for a prize. Insane level of conspiring against my eyes. That being said, what the fuck is that description? Does the author realize that short sentences are not an equivalent for deep writing?

I, a part of the earth’s crust, broken away and now in your hand, while in your mind you hold me, as though newborn. Now someone, preferably whoever nominated this garbage, sits the fuck down and tells me seriously what the fuck this means. Like genuinely word by word what does it mean. You do not get to use random 5th grader level of language like this, now you attach meaning to it.

This is not a style exercises, as it would imply that the translator and the author knew about what style looks like.

A stain on the translator career and the reason no one takes book prize seriously. 

No grades would express my disgust for this.