In the neighbourhood where I grew up, there was a guy named Omri. Everyone knew “Omriki,” because he wasn’t like everyone else. Well, he was like everyone else; he went to school, prayed at the synagogue every day, went to the local corner shop, but he did it all in his own way. He had thoughts of his own. Omri was on the spectrum. I don’t know the correct term for it, and it’s none of my business, but it was undeniable. It poured out of him, in his speech, his facial structure, his mannerisms.

Our paths crossed frequently because we were both library people, though not many words were exchanged. Perhaps a nod here and there. We both always had piles of books in our hands. One time, as he passed me, he smiled at me. He was a few years older than me, but he had the smile of a child. I was a lonely teenager, and his smile was a ray of sunshine for me. I smiled back. From then on, he would offer me a smile whenever he saw me, and after a few smiles, he began adding greetings. One day, he stopped in his tracks and asked, “How are you, Moriah? How was your day?”

The focused look, the unfeigned delight on his face when I stopped too to exchange a few words with him comforted him just as his smiles comforted me from across the way. At least that’s how I imagine it, for after several of these encounters where he would ask me the same question, he suggested we go out together.

Mathis reminded me of my Omri.

Like a gentle ripple on calm waters or a songbird flying into the embrace of dawn, Tarjei Vesaas weaves a delicately structured tale about two siblings living a simple life in a quiet Norwegian village. Mathis is a contemplative soul who drifts through his days, lost in his own world, while his elder sister, Hege, knits sweaters in their cabin by the lake.

From time to time, Mathis sets out around the local farms in search of work, his reputation preceding him. He heads to the local shop in search of sweets, unable to resist. But mostly, he ventures out with his boat to the river.

The world is a hostile place, and in Mathis’s view, a follower of the literal approach, people don’t mean what they say. He finds it hard to grasp human relationships and fires off silly questions in every direction. He’s literal-minded, a thinker, a child trapped in a man’s body. He knows the villagers call him “the fool” and ponders the factors that separate him from the other people in their unnamed village.

Mathis often finds himself captivated by the nuances of nature, the kind that you or I might overlook. The flight of snipe birds over their nesting ground takes on deep significance in his reflections and simply in his being. Believing it to be meaningful, he unintentionally frustrates Hege by not ceasing to talk about it. But soon enough, he feels a tenderness toward Hege, as she is entirely alone with her simple-minded brother, longing for some happiness or romance in her life until her hair turns grey.

The snipe follows Mathis into his dreams, making him feel special in a world where he might be able to drop witty remarks to flirt with the farm girls, start a small business as a failed ferryman, meet two mischievous mermaids trapped in women’s limbs, and devise a system for interpreting the birds’ language.

The Birds captures the resonance of human disconnection in the most human way, offering a tender and warm perspective on those on the margins, but also presenting it with immense sadness. Mathis held onto me the whole way. He made me laugh, and he almost made me cry at the same time. He composed a symphony of emotions in me. His interactions with nature are the essence of this novel. The window Vesaas opens to the reader into Mathis’s mind gradually widens into a door, and I was able to see the world as he did, though decorated with more complexity, as is fitting for someone of the interpretive approach.

The narrative isn’t plot-driven, though there is a faint thread of story and progression. It is primarily Mathis and his thought processes. His way of being in the world drives the novel.

The human need that oscillates between forging connections and breaking barriers, and isolation and withdrawal, finds its expression in every paragraph and is reflected in the glassy lake where Mathis sails his dreams, his yearnings, and his fears.

It’s a moving portrait of simple and despairing lives, beautifully written, ending suddenly. Vesaas’s piercing prose and the unsettling blend of tenderness and unease that tinges the narrative with barren landscapes will linger long after the final page has been turned.

For me, it wasn’t an enjoyable book. In fact, I found it hard to get through. I thought a lot about Omri. I’m still thinking. That’s what Vesaas gave me. I didn’t shed a single tear while reading, but there was a blade stuck in my heart, and every now and then, it twisted.

And the wind will still on the lake, and the birds will dance a solitary dance, speaking through their graceful ripples on the water. And you, the reader, will miraculously understand their language, for somewhere between the tale and harsh reality, Mathis has a connection to the reader, and the reader now becomes Mathis, and the boat will drift towards the sound of wings fluttering and carve a path of sunlit memories.

As for Omri? We didn’t go out. I left the neighbourhood before we had the chance, but I never forgot that smiling guy who would stop me now and then from the daily rush, wanting to hear how my day had been so far. I heard that he asked about me quite a bit too.

Years later, he found me on a return visit to the neighbourhood after a long absence. He was no longer a child, but his face remained boyish. He smiled and waved at me shyly, and when I said, “Hey, Omri, my dear. How are you?” his face lit up in surprise.

“You remember my name?”

“No, I forgot it completely,” I said, and he laughed.

“How are you, Moriah? How was your day?”

My day was a bit tough, Omri. And how was yours?