THE MEMOIRS OF STOCKHOLM SVEN

A Swedish trapper relates his unique life with insights about friendship, hardship, and solitude.

Sven Ormson lives in a tiny cabin in Spitsbergen, a Scandinavian island with precious little between it and the North Pole. In 1917, he’d suffered grotesque injury to his face in a mining avalanche and acquired one of his nicknames, Sven One-Eye. Some turn away from the sight of him in disgust, though he has a circle of friends and family. “I resolved to spend my life alone,” he writes. So he’s drawn to the monastic life of a trapper and appears content with books, correspondence with his sister, Olga, and the occasional company of folks like the Scotsman Charles MacIntyre, who sees in Sven a “fellow bibliophile” perhaps “in need of a friend.” So Sven is seldom alone for long stretches. He is self-deprecating about “the topographic eccentricities” of his face that to some were a “nauseous curiosity.” But he seems not terribly bothered by it or by the fact that some call him Sven the Seal Fucker. “You look like a bear chewed you up and shat you out,” he’s told. “You were never very handsome to begin with.” Fortunately, he disdains pity, “the only thing worse than flagrant antagonism.” And he’s modest about his skills: “I trapped with something that outshone total incompetence,” sometimes proceeding “tentatively like an old lady upon cobblestones.” The arctic climes must breed self-reliance and toughness, which are evident even in Sven’s two dogs, memorable characters themselves. His first canine, Eberhard, is “a fractious, willful brute” that is sometimes his only companion. Meanwhile, Europe convulses in two world wars, and he’ll be lucky if the madness of civilization doesn’t affect him.

Sven’s ugliness is only skin-deep, and readers will love the beauty and depth of his story.