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Bo is running out of time. Yet time is one of the few things he’s got left; his body is failing him and his quiet existence is only broken up by the daily visits from his home care team. His hands soon too weak to open the precious jar housing the scarf of his Alzheimer-stricken wife Frederika, which still bears her scent. Fortunately he still has his beloved elkhound Sixten for company, only now his son insists upon taking the dog away. The very same son that Bo is wanting to mend his relationship with before his time is up. The threat of losing Sixten stirs up a whirlwind of emotions that make him look back at his life, his fatherhood and the way he expresses his love.
When the Cranes Fly South is a profoundly moving debut about an ageing man’s fight to keep the power over his own life.
I was absolutely not prepared for the emotional depth of this book. It quietly gutted me, in the best possible way. Ridzén’s debut is a slow, intimate portrait of aging, masculinity, and the aching complexity of love—especially the kind that struggles to find expression.
We follow Bo, nearly 90, living in rural Sweden, as he clings to the last remnants of his independence: his dog Sixten, his memories, and the fading presence of his wife Fredrika, who no longer remembers him. The plot may seem deceptively small—Bo’s carers and son want to remove Sixten for safety reasons—but the emotional territory is vast. It's about dignity, agency, and the grief that is quiet, muted, and swallowed whole.
Bo’s internal monologue, often addressed to Fredrika, is heartbreakingly intimate. We get his thoughts in fragments—short chapters, memories, quiet reckonings—and it makes the whole experience feel like reading someone’s soul, not just their story. The tension between Bo’s carers’ logbook and his own reflections is subtle and brilliantly done. It reminds you how invisible older people can feel, even when they’re being actively cared for.
What stood out most was the nuanced portrayal of masculinity—how trauma and pride can warp the ability to express love, even when it’s deeply felt. Bo is stubborn, loveable, and deeply familiar to anyone who’s ever watched a loved one navigate aging. His friendship with Ture was a highlight, and Sixten is far more than a pet; he’s Bo’s lifeline.
This book made me cry—ugly cry—and think about my stepfather, my parents, myself. The ending, while gentle and inevitable, left me speechless. Ridzén never strays into sentimentality; the writing is spare and devastatingly effective.
Definitely not a fast-paced read, and it won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. But if you appreciate character-driven novels that explore aging, family, and emotional restraint with tenderness and honesty, this one will stay with you.
And, fair warning: do not read the final chapters in public.
Bo is running out of time. Yet time is one of the few things he’s got left; his body is failing him and his quiet existence is only broken up by the daily visits from his home care team. His hands soon too weak to open the precious jar housing the scarf of his Alzheimer-stricken wife Frederika, which still bears her scent. Fortunately he still has his beloved elkhound Sixten for company, only now his son insists upon taking the dog away. The very same son that Bo is wanting to mend his relationship with before his time is up. The threat of losing Sixten stirs up a whirlwind of emotions that make him look back at his life, his fatherhood and the way he expresses his love.
When the Cranes Fly South is a profoundly moving debut about an ageing man’s fight to keep the power over his own life.
I was absolutely not prepared for the emotional depth of this book. It quietly gutted me, in the best possible way. Ridzén’s debut is a slow, intimate portrait of aging, masculinity, and the aching complexity of love—especially the kind that struggles to find expression.
We follow Bo, nearly 90, living in rural Sweden, as he clings to the last remnants of his independence: his dog Sixten, his memories, and the fading presence of his wife Fredrika, who no longer remembers him. The plot may seem deceptively small—Bo’s carers and son want to remove Sixten for safety reasons—but the emotional territory is vast. It's about dignity, agency, and the grief that is quiet, muted, and swallowed whole.
Bo’s internal monologue, often addressed to Fredrika, is heartbreakingly intimate. We get his thoughts in fragments—short chapters, memories, quiet reckonings—and it makes the whole experience feel like reading someone’s soul, not just their story. The tension between Bo’s carers’ logbook and his own reflections is subtle and brilliantly done. It reminds you how invisible older people can feel, even when they’re being actively cared for.
What stood out most was the nuanced portrayal of masculinity—how trauma and pride can warp the ability to express love, even when it’s deeply felt. Bo is stubborn, loveable, and deeply familiar to anyone who’s ever watched a loved one navigate aging. His friendship with Ture was a highlight, and Sixten is far more than a pet; he’s Bo’s lifeline.
This book made me cry—ugly cry—and think about my stepfather, my parents, myself. The ending, while gentle and inevitable, left me speechless. Ridzén never strays into sentimentality; the writing is spare and devastatingly effective.
Definitely not a fast-paced read, and it won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. But if you appreciate character-driven novels that explore aging, family, and emotional restraint with tenderness and honesty, this one will stay with you.
And, fair warning: do not read the final chapters in public.
