“Now I want to write until I blush. Because I believe that’s where the most interesting writing, the most challenging formulations, are hiding: in the total degradation” writes Edy Poppy in “The Last Short Story,” the opening story in her new collection, Coming. Apart.. Translated from the Norwegian by May-Brit Akerholt, Poppy’s second English-language book, Coming. Apart., is daring, irresistible, and delivers in unexpected ways. Poppy’s strength lies in crafting obscure characters with profound psychological depth. It is a visceral, fever-dream exploration of the human condition, where the ecstasy of desire immediately collides with the crushing despair of profound loneliness.
Obliterating boundaries and challenging conventional storytelling, Poppy explores the precarity of intimacy, the complexities of the fractured self, and the scorching, primal emotions that accompany love, loss, and lust. The title epitomizes the essence of the collection, as each story probes moments of intimacy and emotional chaos. Poppy’s characters are at war with their desires, insecurities, and the weight of their choices. The stories are unapologetically raw, exposing the darkest sides of lasciviousness. Poppy’s narrative style often smudges the line between fiction and autofiction. Her prose is poetic yet unpretentious, weaving vivid imagery with stark emotional truths. The fragmented structure of many stories mirrors the disjointed lives of her characters, creating a reading experience that is both challenging and deeply rewarding.
In the opening story titled, “The Last Short Story,” the narrator, Vår, reflects on the struggle to write honestly, confronting her vulnerabilities and confessing dissatisfaction with her previous work, claiming that it lacked sincerity and courage. Fans of Poppy’s work will recognize Vår as the protagonist from her first book, Anatomy. Monotony. Vår describes her attempts to write about the idea of “coming apart” in various ways, likening it to an “encyclopedia of misery,” blurring the lines between author and character. She admits to hiding behind language and polished formulations, longing instead for an unpretentious form of writing that exposes her sensibilities. It offers a glimpse into the creative process and the tension between truth and fiction, infused with introspective depth:
It’s strange to sit here in my nursery in Bø and think about this. It’s only now, years later, that I feel I have distance enough to touch this material without compassion or sympathy, without this incessant understanding of myself. Without always longing for the poetry of language.
Vår recounts the wreckage of personal relationships, specifically a love triangle involving two men, characterized by her manipulation and inability to choose: “This total blindness to oneself, to a situation, to others. The lack of compassion as well, of course. Lack of compassion in writing.”
This love triangle, a metaphor for a deeper internal struggle between honesty and self-deception, intimacy and isolation, becomes the spine of the book. This tautness between artifice and tenderness questions what it takes to create a meaningful text. The narrator’s desire for “ugly, unpretentious” sentences reflects a deep yearning for authenticity, even at the cost of personal exposure. Ultimately, Vår commits to writing from a place of degradation, convinced that confronting one’s own “rottenness” is the source of the most compelling literature.
And, it is indeed this “rottenness” Poppy explores in a delirious journey into the most obscure corners of the human psyche. She fearlessly puts on paper what others may be ashamed of even thinking, introducing mystifying characters whose actions are driven by the messy, shameful subtext of lechery, loneliness, and the relentless push-pull of relationships. No topic is untouched or taboo; Poppy insists on confronting the repulsive side of human behavior head-on.
“Monitor” tells the story of a woman’s chilling descent into self-destruction, driven by unhealthy obsession and voyeurism. Unable to cope with her breakup, she installs hidden cameras to monitor her ex-boyfriend, using invasive surveillance to maintain a twisted connection. The story probes her deteriorating mental state, marked by self-harm and compulsive behavior, as her distorted perceptions of reality lead to inevitable isolation and emotional collapse:
I have to forget it. I mustn’t have any feelings. No no no. I could become randy. Have to become randy. But no feelings. Not here. And I usually don’t pick up the phone when someone calls. Not usually. Forgotten. I swear, I can hear the hair growing on my legs. You can see the beginning of a few red pubic hairs near the waistband. I push in a finger. Look around, can’t see anyone. Feel absence. I don’t understand why it doesn’t work anymore. It should work. I want to masturbate myself blind. Try it. Masturbate myself stupid. (...) Just by rubbing, just by pushing in a finger. Rotating it. Rotating. Tighten all my muscles to the point of exhaustion. Lay my head back, half-open my mouth. Imitate ecstasy. Nevertheless, nothing, nothing, just the sound of my own choices. The bones in my body snap like an old tree. And the holes in my skin feel like insect bites.
Trapped in her own mind, the protagonist’s obsessive surveillance isolates her from the world, as voyeurism replaces genuine human connection. This acute disconnect reveals her struggles with sexual satisfaction, where her inability to masturbate successfully symbolizes her emotional and physical estrangement from herself and others—a reminder of the psychological toll of unrequited longing and the ways in which obsession can distort reality and erode one’s sense of self.
Poppy doesn’t stop there. In “Alone is Not the Same as Lonely,” the author leans into the putrefaction by offering a deeply disturbing and provocative exploration of trauma and forbidden desires. The narrator reflects on her past, particularly her relationship with her parents, which is scarred by emotional and sexual abuse—recounting moments of voyeurism, incestuous attraction, and self-discovery, revealing a splintered sense of self and a perplexing relationship with shame and desire. The narrative oscillates between past and present, as the narrator struggles to reconcile her memories with her current state of isolation and detachment. Masturbation as a recurring motif serves as a form of escape and a way to confront her unresolved emotions.
Mother is without conventions. Without a mother’s role. Indecent. The heat is penetrating. It’s supposed to be the hottest period of the year. Drops of water trickle out from every pore of our bodies, as if we’re raining.
—Your father’s a very good lover, she says then, provoking.
—I know, I answer, surprised.
Father stands up abruptly and smacks me hard on the chin, so it turns red and swollen, but I’m not the least ashamed. I smile. My skin is heated, sore, almost like a vagina. I feel horny and turn the other cheek.
—I’m sorry, he says. I didn’t mean to hurt you.
—I know, but I liked it, I answer.
My father hits me again and begins to cry. I try to comfort him, comfort his eyes. I feel like a mature woman in a child’s body.
Ruminations of her past reveal the lasting impact of inappropriate familial relationships, which shape her identity and emotional state. The chapter’s unsettling tone serves as a potent commentary on how unresolved trauma slices into one’s sense of self. By preferring memories over reality, the narrator is trapped in a cycle of shame, longing, and self-destruction. Yet, the narrator’s sexual awakening and exploration of her own body become a way to reclaim agency and assert control in navigating her feelings.
Another recurring motif in this story collection is the reference to “trees.” In “Rain Border,” Poppy reconnects the reader with Ragnhild, a character from her first book Anatomy. Monotony. Ragnhild reflects on her life after leaving her husband, Cyril, and the complexities of their tainted bond and the lingering connection she feels to Cyril despite their separation. The trees serve as visual cues for Ragnhild’s emotional states, underscoring her inner turmoil as she grapples with loss, lust, and the passage of time. The persistent scraping of the tree outside Ragnhild’s window contrasts sharply with the destructive image of trees being cut down, symbolizing the impermanence and decay of her relationship. The tree’s eventual removal and the resulting stump—left behind like a “gigantic stool”—evokes the possibility of renewal and resilience, suggesting that while the relationship is physically gone, its essence continues to shape her, reflecting the cyclical nature of life. “But then she looks out on the half-naked tree outside the window and thinks that that, too, will become beautiful.”
A flat, desolate landscape also mirrors the angst of its characters in the story “Dungeness.” A man’s loneliness becomes palpable after the woman leaves, as he tries to fill the void with mundane activities and memories. The physical emptiness of the environment amplifies their internal struggles and the sense of disconnection between them. Yet, the collection transforms its philosophical gaze on degradation and chaos into a compelling, poetic beauty, finding a fascinating light right at the heart of the human condition’s decay. Noteworthy is May-Brit Akerholt’s skilled translation of Edy Poppy’s Coming. Apart. Akerholt, who has also translated works for Nobel Prize winner Jon Fosse, handles the text with a poised and poetic prose that mirrors the author’s deeply introspective style. The book itself is a lyrical piece of experimental writing: stream-of-consciousness narration, fragmented and nonlinear, blending tender moments with evocative language such as this:
She takes his hand. Soft. It feels as if his thin fingers are curling together with hers, brittle. She thinks how lovely they must’ve been when he was a baby: tiny baby fingers with even smaller nails. She wonders how it would’ve looked, this mixture of them. She wants him to stroke her chin again, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, they continue to walk close together under the umbrella. They walk past the boat restaurants floating along the canal. Past the empty areas where people are playing pétanque in summer. Until the tree stubs become trees again, rows of weeping willows. And all the time with this pounding sound of rain over their heads.
These poetic narratives are a powerful meditation on the fragility of the human mind—a contemplation that suggests when faced with the pervasive certainty of emotional collapse, art becomes the sole, desperate means to process the pain of being human and the pervasive inevitability of simply falling apart.
In Coming. Apart. Edy Poppy unflinchingly strips bare the messiness of connection and lust, power imbalances, and the agonizing tension between freedom and constraint—boldly exposing humankind’s darkest desires and traumas, and exploring territory many wouldn’t dare to think, let alone put to paper. It is a mettlesome and provocative collection of short stories that refuses to be ignored.
Britta Stromeyer is a member of the National Book Critics Circle. Her writing appears in The Common, Beyond Words Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bending Genres Journal, Necessary Fiction, On The Seawall, Marin Independent Journal, and other publications. Britta has authored award-winning children’s books and holds an MFA from Dominican University, CA, an M.A. from American University, and a certificate in Novel Writing from Stanford University.