
Culture Writer Cassandra Fong reviews Lilija Berzinska’s The Skeleton in the Cupboard, praising its complexity of blending fairytale logic with a psychological depth to offer a unique depiction of the unseen and emotion
The Skeleton in the Cupboard by Lilija Berzinska is a quietly enchanting collection that blends fairytale logic with psychological depth, set against the backdrop of Latvia’s windswept Livonian coast. At first glance, the book presents a whimsical menagerie of creatures—each stranger and more endearing than the last—but beneath its fantastical exterior lies a thoughtful, often poignant exploration of emotion, identity, and the subtle ache of being different in a world that prizes conformity.
Structured as nine interconnected stories, the book forms a kind of mosaic portrait of a hidden community, one that exists on the fringes of both the physical and emotional world. The creatures are not quite human, yet their dilemmas are deeply familiar. Prickly Spendthrift obsesses over social approval, Squishbod hides secrets with an anxious heart, and Hare tries to manage both hospitality and emotional boundaries while dealing with the complex relationship between comfort and captivity. These are characters shaped by worry and yearning, rendered with a delicate, nonjudgmental touch that makes even their most peculiar behaviours feel deeply human.
“Each tale invites the reader to linger—not just on the events, but on the inner lives of these characters, on the quiet tension between who they are and who they believe they should be
Berzinska’s writing style is gentle but never simplistic. Each tale invites the reader to linger—not just on the events, but on the inner lives of these characters, on the quiet tension between who they are and who they believe they should be. The Livonian setting adds a vital sense of place: the wild forests, desolate beaches, and empty spaces between houses reflect the emotional terrains her characters must traverse. It’s a landscape both beautiful and melancholic, providing a fitting stage for creatures who often feel out of place, even among their own kind.
There is an undeniable kinship here with the work of Tove Jansson, especially in the way Berzinska handles complex emotional themes with a light, almost folkloric touch. Her stories also echo the tender absurdity of A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh, while invoking the introspective quietude of The Wind in the Willows. But while these comparisons help frame the tone and spirit of the book, The Skeleton in the Cupboard retains its own distinct voice—rooted in Baltic traditions, tinged with surrealism, and suffused with an empathetic curiosity that feels entirely unique.
“Ultimately, this is a book about the unseen: the worries tucked away behind closed doors, the quiet yearning for companionship, the slow acceptance of oneself
The translation by Žanete Vēvere Pasqualini and Sara Smith is smooth and thoughtful, capturing not only the lyrical rhythm of the original Latvian but also the cultural nuances that make the stories feel both intimate and unfamiliar. There’s a certain musicality in the prose, a rhythm that mirrors the ebb and flow of the sea that borders the world these creatures inhabit.
Ultimately, this is a book about the unseen: the worries tucked away behind closed doors, the quiet yearning for companionship, the slow acceptance of oneself. It’s not loud or dramatic, but its emotional resonance lingers. It invites multiple readings—each time revealing something new, something quietly wise about the nature of being alive, uncertain, and a little bit strange. In a literary landscape often driven by urgency and spectacle, The Skeleton in the Cupboard offers a rare and welcome invitation: to slow down, to notice the small things, and to sit with the strange creatures that live not just in the forest, but within ourselves.
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