When I was little, I could sit for hours looking out the window. It could be because of a certain kind of music, or because it was dusk, or a certain slant of the light. There was a sensation in my chest, a churning. I couldn't put words to it then. But it was a knowledge that there was something out there. That there was a hole in the world. And a longing to go there. I still have that longing, but it doesn't overwhelm me like it used to. Until now. There's something about the light here that makes the longing bloom.
– Karin Tidbeck, from “Some Letters for Ove Lindström,” Jagannath: Stories (Cheeky Frawg Books, 2012)








