The Snowman, by Jo Nesbo (DNF)
This book was in our swag bags, as Jo Nesbo is one of the Guests of Honor. I was vaguely familiar with it from the ridiculous posters for the notoriously terrible movie version, showing a child's drawing of a snowman and the text "Mister Police you could have saved her I gave you all the clues."
I had the impression that the book was the sort of stereotypical Scandinoir with snow everywhere, dark cold weather reflecting everyone's dark cold hearts, alcoholic depressed detectives, and a general air of near-parodic grimdark and cold.
Also, his detective's name is Harry Hole. HARRY HOLE.
But then I saw Jo Nesbo on a panel. He firmly stated that he didn't think weather was important in writing (he was on a panel on weather in writing) and made a case for the crime novel as serious literature.
Perhaps, I thought, I had misjudged his book. I opened it.
Page 1: It was the day the snow came.
The entire first paragraph is about snow. Snow is weather.
A woman leaves her son in the car and walks through the snow to meet her lover.
Page 2: First, the white lovemaking. The good one. Then the black one. The pain.
His hand caressed her coat, searching for her nipple under the thick material. He was eternally fascinated by her nipples: he always returned to them. Perhaps it was because he didn't have any himself.
"Did you park in front of the garage?" he asked with a firm tweak.
She nodded and felt the pain shoot into her head like a dark of pleasure. Her sex had already opened for him.
Okaaaaay.
Page 3: Again she slapped him with her free hand, and his dick was growing in her other.
Page 4: Sarah stared at his chest. At first she had thought it strange, but after a while she had begin to like the sight of unbroken white skin over his pectoral muscles. It reminded her of old statues on which the nipples have been omitted out of consideration for public modesty.
This is not shaking my impression of Nesbo's books as not exactly serious literature.
Chapter 2: Harry Hole gave a start and opened his eyes wide.
At this point I looked up how Harry Hole is pronounced in Norwegian. Hole apparently means hill and is pronounced Hula. If I was the English translator and/or Nesbo and/or publisher, I would have either changed Hole to Hill, spelled it differently, or at least added an accent or something. If my books were translated, I would not want my protagonist's name to sound absolutely ridiculous in translation.
Harry Hole gets out of bed.
He left the news blaring from the clock radio and went into the bathroom. Regarded himself in the mirror. November was there, too: drawn, grayish pale and overcast. As usual his eyes were bloodshot, the pores on his nose large black craters. The bags under his eyes, with her light blue alcohol washed irises, would disappear after his face had been ministered to with hot water, a towel and breakfast.
Alcoholic depressed detective, looks in mirror so we can describe him, check.
He ran a hand over the short bristles of blonde hair that grew precisely 75 inches above the frozen soles of his feet.
What is with male authors and precise numbers for body part measurements?
We learn that he works out a lot.
The fat disappeared and his muscles were layered between skin and bone. And while before he had been broad shouldered and what Rakel called a natural athlete, now he had begun to resemble the photograph he had one scene of the skinned polar bear: a muscular but shockingly gaunt predator. Harry sighed. November was going to get even darker.
The radio is conveniently playing a nature program which also mentions that a study shows that about 20% of all Swedish children have a different father than the one they think. This will be plot relevant. Harry then fiddles with the radio until it starts playing Johnny Cash's desperado. There is a knock at the door
"Harry Hole?"
Some dude informs him that his apartment has fungus. This depresses him some more. It is NOVEMBER and it is COLD and DARK and he has MOLD.
At that point I DNF'd. I shall leave the book at the AirBnb, but there is a strange satisfaction in discovering that the first two chapters, at least, were exactly what I had always imagined the book to be.
Except for the nipples. No one ever expects the lack of nipples.
[image error] [image error]
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I had the impression that the book was the sort of stereotypical Scandinoir with snow everywhere, dark cold weather reflecting everyone's dark cold hearts, alcoholic depressed detectives, and a general air of near-parodic grimdark and cold.
Also, his detective's name is Harry Hole. HARRY HOLE.
But then I saw Jo Nesbo on a panel. He firmly stated that he didn't think weather was important in writing (he was on a panel on weather in writing) and made a case for the crime novel as serious literature.
Perhaps, I thought, I had misjudged his book. I opened it.
Page 1: It was the day the snow came.
The entire first paragraph is about snow. Snow is weather.
A woman leaves her son in the car and walks through the snow to meet her lover.
Page 2: First, the white lovemaking. The good one. Then the black one. The pain.
His hand caressed her coat, searching for her nipple under the thick material. He was eternally fascinated by her nipples: he always returned to them. Perhaps it was because he didn't have any himself.
"Did you park in front of the garage?" he asked with a firm tweak.
She nodded and felt the pain shoot into her head like a dark of pleasure. Her sex had already opened for him.
Okaaaaay.
Page 3: Again she slapped him with her free hand, and his dick was growing in her other.
Page 4: Sarah stared at his chest. At first she had thought it strange, but after a while she had begin to like the sight of unbroken white skin over his pectoral muscles. It reminded her of old statues on which the nipples have been omitted out of consideration for public modesty.
This is not shaking my impression of Nesbo's books as not exactly serious literature.
Chapter 2: Harry Hole gave a start and opened his eyes wide.
At this point I looked up how Harry Hole is pronounced in Norwegian. Hole apparently means hill and is pronounced Hula. If I was the English translator and/or Nesbo and/or publisher, I would have either changed Hole to Hill, spelled it differently, or at least added an accent or something. If my books were translated, I would not want my protagonist's name to sound absolutely ridiculous in translation.
Harry Hole gets out of bed.
He left the news blaring from the clock radio and went into the bathroom. Regarded himself in the mirror. November was there, too: drawn, grayish pale and overcast. As usual his eyes were bloodshot, the pores on his nose large black craters. The bags under his eyes, with her light blue alcohol washed irises, would disappear after his face had been ministered to with hot water, a towel and breakfast.
Alcoholic depressed detective, looks in mirror so we can describe him, check.
He ran a hand over the short bristles of blonde hair that grew precisely 75 inches above the frozen soles of his feet.
What is with male authors and precise numbers for body part measurements?
We learn that he works out a lot.
The fat disappeared and his muscles were layered between skin and bone. And while before he had been broad shouldered and what Rakel called a natural athlete, now he had begun to resemble the photograph he had one scene of the skinned polar bear: a muscular but shockingly gaunt predator. Harry sighed. November was going to get even darker.
The radio is conveniently playing a nature program which also mentions that a study shows that about 20% of all Swedish children have a different father than the one they think. This will be plot relevant. Harry then fiddles with the radio until it starts playing Johnny Cash's desperado. There is a knock at the door
"Harry Hole?"
Some dude informs him that his apartment has fungus. This depresses him some more. It is NOVEMBER and it is COLD and DARK and he has MOLD.
At that point I DNF'd. I shall leave the book at the AirBnb, but there is a strange satisfaction in discovering that the first two chapters, at least, were exactly what I had always imagined the book to be.
Except for the nipples. No one ever expects the lack of nipples.
[image error] [image error]
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