BookView Review

Welcome to BookView Interview, a conversation series where BookView talks to authors.

Recently, we talked to Cynthia Reeves about her writing and recently released book, The last Whaler,  a meticulously researched tale that follows a grieving couple as they search for solace in the Arctic’s harsh environment. (Read the review here).

Why does The Last Whaler carry the unusual dedication “For the whales”?

I didn’t start out writing The Last Whaler intending to dedicate the novel to whales. Beluga whaling on Svalbard in the 1930s was meant only as the story’s central action. True, one crucial inspiration for the novel came from observing piles and piles of beluga bones bleaching on a remote beach on Svalbard and being moved by the sheer scale of the whales’ destruction. Guides told us that the graveyard represented 500-700 harvested beluga whales!

I’d landed there as a member of the 2017 Arctic Circle Summer Solstice Expedition, a joint artist-scientist residency aboard a ship that sailed the western shores of the archipelago. There were many remarkable experiences during that voyage—witnessing a massive glacier calving, walking on an ice floe, chancing upon an upheaving sailor’s grave, and lighting a bonfire to celebrate a traditional Norwegian Midsummer’s Eve. All of these experiences made their way into the novel.

But it was the bones that stayed with me upon my return home, so much so that I dedicated five years of my life to creating a story around them. To understand enough about whaling to feel confident to embody it in The Last Whaler, I spent many months reading dry texts on the history and process of whaling, visiting aquariums to observe beluga in captivity, whale-watching off the coasts of Svalbard and Iceland, and reading other fictional works featuring whaling. I found that the history of whaling and whale conservation is complex and spans centuries. In short, whaling began with exploitation, whalers harvesting a bounty of oil, baleen, and buttery-soft skins; moved through a period of enlightenment as knowledge of the whale’s intelligence and endangerment spread; and finally alighted on the past century of increasingly stringent laws to govern whaling.

Stories of the emotional and intellectual lives of whales—a cow who lost her calf and carried a buoy for months as a substitute, or a bull who lingered for weeks offshore after his mate was harpooned and dragged ashore, or the “conversations” with whales that scientists have documented—made it hard for me to square with the wanton slaughter of whales. Thus, “for the whales.”

What kind of research did you do for The Last Whaler?

Research was a key part of creating The Last Whaler since several topics arose for which my knowledge was limited. First was whaling: Tor Handeland is a beluga whaler whose retrospective narration forms the novel’s core. Second was Arctic flora: Tor’s wife, Astrid, is a botanist specializing in Arctic flora who accompanies him for the 1937 summer whaling season. Third, real-life heroes play a major role in The Last Whaler—in particular, women such as the pioneering Norwegian botanist Hanna Resvoll-Holmsen, the “Arctic housewife” Helfrid Nøis, and Christiane Ritter, an Austrian woman who braved a year at the northernmost tip of Svalbard to live with her hunter-husband Hermann. Norway’s participation in World War II, what it was like to live on Svalbard in the 1930s and 40s, coal mining, frostbite, polar bears…these and other subjects occupied my time as I delved deeper and deeper into the story.

How long did the research take?

A confession: I enjoy research almost more than writing. Some may consider this a fault.

Early on in drafting The Last Whaler, I attended a workshop given by a well-known, successful female novelist. One of the attendees asked about research, and Famous Novelist’s response surprised me: she felt that research should be lightly attended in the overall project of novel-writing. I was too timid to object even though I strongly disagreed.

Yes, it’s true that writers can lose themselves in research, putting off the infinitely more difficult process of crafting a story. Yet, I find it impossible to know when to stop. An example: one of the most touching lines in my novella Badlands occurs when the main character, who is dying, dreams of a moth alighting on her parched lips. That idea—that moths will seek out the slightest drop of moisture—came from reading an obscure diary of a nineteenth-century archaeologist. Days of my life were invested for that single sentence.

Is it worth it? I will grant Famous Novelist that she is more prolific than I. Is that the tradeoff for creating a work richer with visceral and authentic detail? I think so.

What makes this book important right now?

The Last Whaler is a work of historical fiction, set on Svalbard in the 1930s and 40s, and yet many of its themes are relevant today.

First, the protection of endangered species is a critical contemporary issue, but I was surprised to discover in my research that whale conservation has been concern for the past hundred years. Whaling has been governed by international laws since at least the 1930s, with increasingly stringent protections since then.

Second, because the original inspiration for the novel arose from the sight of the beluga bones bleaching on that remote beach, the impact of humans on the natural environment became central to the novel. On Svalbard today, the government takes great pains to preserve the natural environment—even forbidding residents and tourists from touching historical remains and encouraging visitors to step around vegetation.

Finally, the “shame” associated with mental illness—and the treatment of individuals suffering from such illnesses—is woven throughout the novel. For example, The Last Whaler is a rare novel to explore postpartum depression, though insight into such “women’s problems” was in its infancy in the 1930s and 40s. Even today, there can be a lack of compassion for people suffering from mental illness, so I found it important to create characters with whom the reader can sympathize.

How crucial is it for you to have a working title before you begin a project? How did you decide on your title?

All of my books and many of my short stories started with a title, yet I’d never thought about how crucial this aspect of my writing was (and is) until you asked this question. My novella Badlands began with an image of a Native American woman and her infant dying at Wounded Knee in the Badlands, hence that title. My novel in stories Falling Through the New World derived from the idea of what immigrants leave behind and what they “fall through” by coming to a “new world.”

Likewise, the title The Last Whaler originated at the very moment I set foot on that beach covered in beluga bones. One of my shipmates noted upon our arrival there that this was to be among our last landings. Something about the word last struck me immediately. It was as if I could sense right then that the word would become crucial to my future writing.

In the aftermath of that voyage, I sketched out what I thought was going to be a trilogy of novellas—“The Last Whaler” set in the past, “The Last Glacier” set in the near present, and “The Last Eden” set in a post-apocalyptic world. As it turned out, The Last Whaler became a novel, “The Last Glacier” became a short story voiced from the point-of-view of the glacier Austfonna, and “The Last Eden” is still in the process of becoming.

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