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.

In Iceland, you can see the contours of the mountains wherever you go, and the swell of the hills, and always beyond that the horizon. And there's this strange thing: you're never sort of hidden; you always feel exposed in that landscape. But it makes it very beautiful as well.

I’ve been half-frozen for so long, it is as though the winter has set up home in my marrow.

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

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.

I can turn to that day as though it were a page in a book. It’s written so deeply upon my mind I can almost taste the ink.

I don’t want to be remembered, I want to be here!

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.

No doves come from ravens’ eggs

It’s not fair. People claim to know you through the things you’ve done, and not by sitting down and listening to you speak for yourself.