There’s a quality of stillness in Tabea Steiner’s essays: the stillness of maps, that of snapshot from distant and problematic times, of Covid lockdowns, and, of course, of the stillest stillness of all, death. But Steiner pulls off a small miracle by matching the stillness of her topics with the quiet translucence of her language. The result is a collection of essays which each are like a water drop: tiny, perfect in itself and defined, but clearly part of a much wider ocean.
Francesca Melandri