Repetition

Settle in with your mug first: where did you do most of your reading of this one, and did the book want a quiet room or did it not care?

Hjorth's narration can feel like someone thinking out loud right next to you. Did that company feel comforting, or did you sometimes want to gently close the book and take a breath?

The book is called Repetition. What is something you repeat (a route, a phrase, a season, a particular argument) that you have come to find oddly comforting?

Hjorth is so good at the weather of a family room, the mood before anyone speaks. Was there a scene where you recognized that atmosphere from your own life, and did recognizing it feel warm or a little bruising?

Norwegian writing often leans into long light and long dark. Which passage felt like the coziest moment in the book to you, the one you would happily have stayed inside longer?

This is a narrator who revisits her own story. When you tell a story about your past more than once, do you notice it softening, hardening, or quietly rearranging itself?

Without giving anything away about where she lands: did you find yourself trusting the narrator's account of herself, and did your feeling about her warm up or cool down as the book went on?

By the last pages, did the book leave you feeling held or left a little exposed? Try to name the feeling you were sitting with when you closed it, rather than what happened.