TERMUSH by Sven Holm — reviewed by Stella

Termush by Sven Holm (translated from Danish by Sylvia Clayton)

A stay in a luxury hotel at the end of the world may be something to look forward to …or not. Faber Editions have reissued Sven Holm’s 1967 dystopia Termush: fascinating and horrific in equal measure. Fascinating for its queasy prescience as we move into a period of uncertainty — wildfires, flooding, melting ice sheets, drone warfare, heightened surveillance... and the list of dysfunction goes on. You better have a book to hand. And horrifying, for the human reaction to disaster. One, the residents have been paying for this safety in the event of a cataclysmic event — an insurance scheme for the wealthiest — fair if you can afford it. And two, as the edges of their paradise become more porous, the responses to the threat from outside are increasingly fragmented. Termush is an edgy exploration into the mind of one resident and their discomfort at the turn of events, as well as a philosophical examination of societal structures, ethics, and the politics of survival. Holm treads lightly in the shoes of our protagonist as he navigates the days at the resort. He heads down to the dining room to eat, strikes up a romantic friendship with his neighbour, observes the workings of the inner circle of the committee and the bureaucratic nature of the management, and accepts the rules and the presence of the security detail without stepping out of line. Yet he is disturbed by the volatility of the situation and the impact on humanity. Despite his inner reflections and obvious misgivings, he does little, or can do little, to make a difference to the final outcome, except ask questions of his fellows and himself. There are some delightful musings in this novella. The voice in the radio. Who does it belong to? Why is it soothing? Is it a recording from before? Or is the owner of this voice somewhere in the building? As the narrator feels increasingly disoriented, he is sure the pauses of the radio announcer get longer and his breathing more belaboured. As the chaos from outside the hotel’s perimeter digs its way in, literally (there are breaches and visitors begin to stumble in) and figuratively (the minds of the hotel residents are not all of one accord, and some are finding the worm of despair unconquerable), our observant academic is spending more time in his room, lying down. The dream of a safe haven is only as good as the controls that keep one asleep. Written in 1967, Holm was envisioning a nuclear disaster. There are descriptions of a landscape upside down; of dust and poison rain, of plants being washed down and birds falling from the sky (scooped away by security before they are noticed), of Geiger counters and shelters — all captured by the observant academic almost like an exercise in curiosity. The artificial landscape of the resort is bizarre, wedged somewhere between naivety and horror. Holm’s text is surprisingly quirky for a reflection on destruction and control. And the last word goes to writer Salena Godden for this quotable comment — "Like someone from the future screaming to us".