I just finished the first of seven books about an antique bookseller stuck in a single repeating day and her attempts to understand and escape her absurd situation. The author first crossed my radar from a hilarious New York Times profile where the reporter visited her isolated house in Denmark and mentioned a box labeled “Things” and another labeled “And Some Other Things”. Relatable.

I found myself needing to be in the right mood to absorb the deluge of mundane details of hundreds of the same day yet eventually I was fully pulled in and feeling the mood swings of the protagonist. Or rather the slow transition of how she looked at herself and the untethering from rhythms we take for granted. I’ll probably take a little break and pick up the next book soon. It also reminded me how much I’d like to read Proust’s In Search Of Lost Time to continue this theme of temporality, mundanity, and profundity.