Sophia’s father is there too, though generally offstage, just at the edge of things, smoking his pipe or taking out his boat fishing or working at his desk. In Tove Jansson’s 1972 The Summer Book, 6-year-old Sophia and her grandmother are spending the summer on a tiny, remote island off the coast of Finland. On the surface it is deceptively clean and simple. But every year around this time, when the light starts to slant differently and the once endless days gain a sharper, more defined finale, there’s a strange and beautiful little novel I reread. Officially, there are nearly 20 more days until the fall equinox. Technically, I like to point out, it is not over yet.
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