A curious little volume, which I ordered from the library because it was recommended as a bracing antidote to all the Kondo-fever going around.
And it is -- there is no joy sparking here, just pretty good common sense, and an unsentimental take on "stuff." (Among the many personal anecdotes, Magnusson -- who describes herself as being aged "between eighty and one hundred" -- tells us that she sold a bracelet that her father gave her mother before they were married, so that her five children wouldn't have the burden of deciding (or arguing about) which one of them should have it after her death ... WHOA. As a borderline hoarder, that gave me a moment's anxiety attack, I can tell you ...) Worthwhile, if only for one useful thing learned: the Swedish word for "junk" is "skrap." Appropriate in so many, many ways ...
The chapter in which she refers to the "death cleaning" she was forced to undertake because of the death of her husband was genuinely heartbreaking. But sadly, in spite of Magnusson's charming, idiosyncratic voice, and her common sense, I can understand why it hasn't achieved the iconic status of Kondo -- it seems to fall unforgettably between two stools. Not enough personal detail to make an impact as memoir-by-stealth, but not enough practical advice to make it a helpful "how-to" either.
And it is -- there is no joy sparking here, just pretty good common sense, and an unsentimental take on "stuff." (Among the many personal anecdotes, Magnusson -- who describes herself as being aged "between eighty and one hundred" -- tells us that she sold a bracelet that her father gave her mother before they were married, so that her five children wouldn't have the burden of deciding (or arguing about) which one of them should have it after her death ... WHOA. As a borderline hoarder, that gave me a moment's anxiety attack, I can tell you ...) Worthwhile, if only for one useful thing learned: the Swedish word for "junk" is "skrap." Appropriate in so many, many ways ...
The chapter in which she refers to the "death cleaning" she was forced to undertake because of the death of her husband was genuinely heartbreaking. But sadly, in spite of Magnusson's charming, idiosyncratic voice, and her common sense, I can understand why it hasn't achieved the iconic status of Kondo -- it seems to fall unforgettably between two stools. Not enough personal detail to make an impact as memoir-by-stealth, but not enough practical advice to make it a helpful "how-to" either.
