Mystery
![Christoffer Carlsson - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_christoffer_carlsson.jpg)
Blaze Me a Sun: A Novel About a Crime
#1 INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER • A serial killer in a small Swedish town commits his first murder the same night the prime minister is assassinated in this "thrilling and profoundly poignant" (Angie Kim) novel by one of the country's top criminologists, hailed as "the finest crime writer we have in Sweden" (David Lagercrantz, author of The Girl in the Spider's Web and other novels in Stieg Larsson's Millennium Series)
"Christoffer Carlsson is to the police procedural what Cormac McCarthy is to the Western."-Anthony Marra, author of Mercury Pictures Presents and A Constellation of Vital Phenomena
In February 1986, the Halland police receive a call from a man who claims to have attacked his first victim. I'm going to do it again, he says before the line cuts off. By the time police officer Sven Jörgensson reaches the crime scene, the woman is taking her last breath. For Sven, this will prove a decisive moment. On the same night, Sweden plunges into a state of shock after the murder of the prime minister. Could there possibly be a connection?
As Sven becomes obsessed with the case, two more fall victim. For years, Sven remains haunted by the murders he cannot solve, fearing the killer will strike again. Having failed to catch him, Sven retires from the police, passing his obsession to his son, who has joined the force to be closer to his father.
Decades later, the case unexpectedly resurfaces when a novelist returns home to Halland amid a failed marriage and a sputtering career. The writer befriends the retired police officer, who helps the novelist-our narrator-unspool the many strands of this engrossing tale about a community confronting its shames and legacies.
A #1 bestseller in Sweden, Blaze Me a Sun marks the American debut of the youngest winner of the Best Swedish Crime Novel of the Year award, the top prize for Swedish crime writers whose past winners include Stieg Larsson and Henning Mankell.
"Christoffer Carlsson is to the police procedural what Cormac McCarthy is to the Western."-Anthony Marra, author of Mercury Pictures Presents and A Constellation of Vital Phenomena
In February 1986, the Halland police receive a call from a man who claims to have attacked his first victim. I'm going to do it again, he says before the line cuts off. By the time police officer Sven Jörgensson reaches the crime scene, the woman is taking her last breath. For Sven, this will prove a decisive moment. On the same night, Sweden plunges into a state of shock after the murder of the prime minister. Could there possibly be a connection?
As Sven becomes obsessed with the case, two more fall victim. For years, Sven remains haunted by the murders he cannot solve, fearing the killer will strike again. Having failed to catch him, Sven retires from the police, passing his obsession to his son, who has joined the force to be closer to his father.
Decades later, the case unexpectedly resurfaces when a novelist returns home to Halland amid a failed marriage and a sputtering career. The writer befriends the retired police officer, who helps the novelist-our narrator-unspool the many strands of this engrossing tale about a community confronting its shames and legacies.
A #1 bestseller in Sweden, Blaze Me a Sun marks the American debut of the youngest winner of the Best Swedish Crime Novel of the Year award, the top prize for Swedish crime writers whose past winners include Stieg Larsson and Henning Mankell.
Editorial Reviews
"Christoffer Carlsson is to the police procedural what Cormac McCarthy is to the Western, and his American debut is a story of near biblical power about crime and punishment, vengeance and redemption. If you read crime fiction, you'll find yourself gripped by the ingenious plotting and page-turning suspense. If you read literary fiction, you'll find yourself moved by the gorgeous writing and heartbreakingly real characters. If, like me, you read both, you will find that Blaze Me a Sun is the perfect novel."-Anthony Marra, New York Times bestselling author of A Constellation of Vital Phenomena and Mercury Pictures Presents
"In this powerful, exquisitely constructed novel about a crime (but so much more), Christoffer Carlsson uses a twisty murder mystery to explore the haunting reverberations of guilt and obsession through generations of families and communities. At once thrilling and profoundly poignant, Blaze Me a Sun thrums with a relentless tension that culminates in one of the most satisfying and devastating endings I've read in a long time."-Angie Kim, bestselling author of Miracle Creek, winner of the Edgar Award and the ITW Thriller Award
"A Russian doll of a mystery, holding its truths within layers and layers of secrets and revelations. You think you know where this book is going. You don't. Carlsson's American debut is a wonder."-Joseph Finder, New York Times bestselling author of House on Fire and Vanished, winner of the International Thriller Writers Award
"A Swedish neo-noir by way of Sartre, Blaze Me a Sun is at once a crime novel and a gripping study in how we struggle to understand our own lives and the lives of others. The writing is spare and moody, elegantly unwrapping decades of guilt and damage."-Flynn Berry, New York Times bestselling author of Northern Spy,
"In this powerful, exquisitely constructed novel about a crime (but so much more), Christoffer Carlsson uses a twisty murder mystery to explore the haunting reverberations of guilt and obsession through generations of families and communities. At once thrilling and profoundly poignant, Blaze Me a Sun thrums with a relentless tension that culminates in one of the most satisfying and devastating endings I've read in a long time."-Angie Kim, bestselling author of Miracle Creek, winner of the Edgar Award and the ITW Thriller Award
"A Russian doll of a mystery, holding its truths within layers and layers of secrets and revelations. You think you know where this book is going. You don't. Carlsson's American debut is a wonder."-Joseph Finder, New York Times bestselling author of House on Fire and Vanished, winner of the International Thriller Writers Award
"A Swedish neo-noir by way of Sartre, Blaze Me a Sun is at once a crime novel and a gripping study in how we struggle to understand our own lives and the lives of others. The writing is spare and moody, elegantly unwrapping decades of guilt and damage."-Flynn Berry, New York Times bestselling author of Northern Spy,
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
It was the summer Evy Carlén got very sick, realized she didn't have long to live, and confided in me that she knew what had happened to Sven Jörgensson and his son, Vidar, up in Tiarp.
We hadn't known each other very long. I knew Evy had been a police officer and had moved to the house near Tofta a few years after retiring. Her husband, Ronnie, had died, and in her widowhood she devoted her days to the beautiful garden surrounding their house. It was situated a few kilometers up in the woods. That was how we met.
Ever since my return, I've lived a relatively quiet life. That's how I like it. I'm over forty now, and my days don't include any children, women, or other distractions. I spend my time writing or reading. Once or twice a week I take the car and go grocery shopping, drop by the bookstore, or visit my parents. They're in their seventies now. On occasion I drive down to Lund, where my brother works and where my editor spends half his time. I don't do much else. If I like I can walk down to the bus stop on Växjövägen and ride into town to see an old friend over a cup of coffee or a beer. Those trips are increasingly scarce now.
The only truly regular facet of my existence, beyond writing and reading, is taking walks. I hardly ever took walks during my years in Stockholm, unless I had some destination in mind, but down here I walk a few kilometers almost every day. I don't know quite why I need it, but I do. Alongside the treat of a glass of whiskey a few times a week, after an especially productive workday, my walks are one of the few rewards I allow myself.
The first time I met her was in late June. The old woman was in her garden next to an open bag of potting soil. The quiet nature of her surroundings meant that she noticed me right away as I came walking by. She looked up, spotted me, nodded, and smiled.
"Aren't you the one who moved in down by the road? Into the yellow house?"
"Yes, that's me, I moved here recently," I said.
"Where did you live before?"
"Stockholm. But I'm from here originally."
"I've seen you on walks in the neighborhood."
"It's become a habit. This is a beautiful stretch."
"Oh. Maybe it is. It's like I don't see it myself anymore." She strode over to the fence and put out her hand. "I'm Evy."
Once I'd introduced myself, she said, "That's right. You're the one who writes books. Aren't you?"
"Yes," I said, even though I hadn't been able to write a word since I came back. "I suppose I am."
"I haven't read any of them, I have to confess."
"There's no need to. Have you lived here long?"
"For almost fifteen years. My husband and I bought the house. Now it's just me. I've thought about selling it, of course," she went on, as if anticipating a question she heard often, "but I don't know, where would I go? I'm eighty years old. I guess I'll just keep living."
The next time we met, a week or so later, she invited me in for a cup of coffee and we exchanged phone numbers. We sat in her kitchen. Evy had a new cellphone, which she'd received from one of her grandchildren, and I showed her how the alarm clock worked.
She visited me sometimes. We drank wine, chatted, played cards, and kept each other company. She told me stories from her life as a police officer, hilarious and tragic stories of criminals and addicts, victims and next of kin. How it had been different, being a woman on the force at the time, and yet not. She showed me pictures from a photo album and spoke about her late husband, Ronnie, about her children and grandchildren, about her brother, Einar. I told her I'd moved back to my childhood home, that I was trying to get it in order but didn't know how, that I hadn't been able to write, and hadn't even had anything to write about, in ages.
"That sounds lonely. You, I mean. You sound lonely."
"So do you," I said.
She chuckled. "It's not the same."
Her eyes were alert and disarming in a way I wasn't used to, as if her gaze were an art she had perfected and used to great advantage during years' worth of encounters with those who found themselves in the clutches of law enforcement. It would take time for me to realize that, despite her austere background, there were years when she'd relied on cigarettes and gin to calm her nerves and make it through.
Then one day in early August, something went wrong. Evy had gotten up early that morning and felt strange. Her equilibrium was off; she felt dizzy as she brewed her morning coffee, and when she walked into her front hall she had to grab the wall for support because everything was tilting weirdly. Her stomach began to churn. Standing before the mirror, she straightened up and t...
It was the summer Evy Carlén got very sick, realized she didn't have long to live, and confided in me that she knew what had happened to Sven Jörgensson and his son, Vidar, up in Tiarp.
We hadn't known each other very long. I knew Evy had been a police officer and had moved to the house near Tofta a few years after retiring. Her husband, Ronnie, had died, and in her widowhood she devoted her days to the beautiful garden surrounding their house. It was situated a few kilometers up in the woods. That was how we met.
Ever since my return, I've lived a relatively quiet life. That's how I like it. I'm over forty now, and my days don't include any children, women, or other distractions. I spend my time writing or reading. Once or twice a week I take the car and go grocery shopping, drop by the bookstore, or visit my parents. They're in their seventies now. On occasion I drive down to Lund, where my brother works and where my editor spends half his time. I don't do much else. If I like I can walk down to the bus stop on Växjövägen and ride into town to see an old friend over a cup of coffee or a beer. Those trips are increasingly scarce now.
The only truly regular facet of my existence, beyond writing and reading, is taking walks. I hardly ever took walks during my years in Stockholm, unless I had some destination in mind, but down here I walk a few kilometers almost every day. I don't know quite why I need it, but I do. Alongside the treat of a glass of whiskey a few times a week, after an especially productive workday, my walks are one of the few rewards I allow myself.
The first time I met her was in late June. The old woman was in her garden next to an open bag of potting soil. The quiet nature of her surroundings meant that she noticed me right away as I came walking by. She looked up, spotted me, nodded, and smiled.
"Aren't you the one who moved in down by the road? Into the yellow house?"
"Yes, that's me, I moved here recently," I said.
"Where did you live before?"
"Stockholm. But I'm from here originally."
"I've seen you on walks in the neighborhood."
"It's become a habit. This is a beautiful stretch."
"Oh. Maybe it is. It's like I don't see it myself anymore." She strode over to the fence and put out her hand. "I'm Evy."
Once I'd introduced myself, she said, "That's right. You're the one who writes books. Aren't you?"
"Yes," I said, even though I hadn't been able to write a word since I came back. "I suppose I am."
"I haven't read any of them, I have to confess."
"There's no need to. Have you lived here long?"
"For almost fifteen years. My husband and I bought the house. Now it's just me. I've thought about selling it, of course," she went on, as if anticipating a question she heard often, "but I don't know, where would I go? I'm eighty years old. I guess I'll just keep living."
The next time we met, a week or so later, she invited me in for a cup of coffee and we exchanged phone numbers. We sat in her kitchen. Evy had a new cellphone, which she'd received from one of her grandchildren, and I showed her how the alarm clock worked.
She visited me sometimes. We drank wine, chatted, played cards, and kept each other company. She told me stories from her life as a police officer, hilarious and tragic stories of criminals and addicts, victims and next of kin. How it had been different, being a woman on the force at the time, and yet not. She showed me pictures from a photo album and spoke about her late husband, Ronnie, about her children and grandchildren, about her brother, Einar. I told her I'd moved back to my childhood home, that I was trying to get it in order but didn't know how, that I hadn't been able to write, and hadn't even had anything to write about, in ages.
"That sounds lonely. You, I mean. You sound lonely."
"So do you," I said.
She chuckled. "It's not the same."
Her eyes were alert and disarming in a way I wasn't used to, as if her gaze were an art she had perfected and used to great advantage during years' worth of encounters with those who found themselves in the clutches of law enforcement. It would take time for me to realize that, despite her austere background, there were years when she'd relied on cigarettes and gin to calm her nerves and make it through.
Then one day in early August, something went wrong. Evy had gotten up early that morning and felt strange. Her equilibrium was off; she felt dizzy as she brewed her morning coffee, and when she walked into her front hall she had to grab the wall for support because everything was tilting weirdly. Her stomach began to churn. Standing before the mirror, she straightened up and t...
