Cruel birds, ravens, but wise. And creatures should be loved for their wisdom if they cannot be loved for kindness.

I first heard the story of Agnes Magnusdottir when I was an exchange student in the north of Iceland.

I have a deep and ongoing love of Iceland, particular the landscape, and when writing Burial Rites, I was constantly trying to see whether I could distill its extraordinary and ineffable qualities into a kind of poetry.

The treachery of a friend is worse than that of a foe.

A bubble of fear passes up my spine. It's the feeling of standing on ice and suddenly hearing it crack under your weight - both thrilling and terrifying together.

...dreadful birds, dressed in red with breasts of silver buttons, and cocked heads and sharp mouths, looking for guilt like berries on a bush.

If I believed everything everyone had ever told me about my family I'd be a sight more miserable than I am now