Nesbo's as usual exhausting the reader with his over-the-top imagery, blood-bath-ery, badassery, and every other kind of assery unimaginable out there.
Who would imagine getting chatty with their victim since the murder happens right before Christmas?
A dyslexic killer enamoured with romance and philosophy. Some cartoonish opposition (so that we would have something to look forward, plotwise). Fantastically dysfunctional familial ties. Picturesque everything.
The protagonist misses out on university, even though he's shown as better read than average, even for his dyslexia. Why? He just can't, not with him feeling his father's toxic shadow. So, he just makes up romance for himself (almost at random) and ultimately does himself ... no favours.
Makes one think about the 'extra' people who by some really bad luck get over the board of the world, of socicety, of everything. The ones who are outsiders due to a bunch of things: bad parenting, some disability, some crack across their soul that prevents them from ... from something, from anything.
Starts hilarious and then turns sad, all the way being gruesome. I wonder, what's it with JN that his characters are always so very entertainingly messed up?
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I don’t know why, but the old man who was behind the counter of the post office when we went in was in a big hurry to develop psychological problems. (c) Yeah, right. Why would he bother?
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Life seems simple when you’re sufficiently ill. (c)
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The snow was dancing like cotton wool in the light of the street lamps. Aimlessly, unable to decide whether it wanted to fall up or down, just letting itself be driven by the hellish, ice-cold wind that was sweeping in from the great darkness covering the Oslo fjord. Together they swirled, wind and snow, round and round in the darkness between the warehouses on the quayside that were all shut for the night. Until the wind got fed up and dumped its dance partner beside the wall. And there the dry, windswept snow was settling around the shoes of the man I had just shot in the chest and neck. (c) Picturesque much?
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We made love. ... I was scared she would disappear. ... It was like holding moonlight. Just as soft. Just as impossible. (c)
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It had been just like I had dreamed it would be. And hadn’t believed it could be. I was so tired that I had to get some sleep. But so happy that I didn’t want to. Because when I fell asleep, this world, this world that I had never much cared for until now, would cease to exist for a while. And, according to that Hume guy, the fact that I had until now woken up every morning in the same body, into the same world, where what had happened had actually happened, was no guarantee that the same thing would happen again tomorrow morning. For the first time in my life, closing my eyes felt like a gamble. (c)
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I don’t actually know a lot about snow—or much else, for that matter—but I’ve read that snow crystals formed when it’s really cold are completely different from wet snow, heavy flakes, or the crunchy stuff. (c)
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Either way, the snow under him made me think of a king’s robe, all purple and lined with ermine, like the drawings in the book of Norwegian folk tales my mother used to read to me. She liked fairy tales and kings. That’s probably why she named me after a king. (c)
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As I walked home I imagined a snowman rising up from the snowdrift, one with clearly visible veins of blood under its deathly pale skin of ice. (c)
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Here are four things I can’t be used for. Driving a getaway car. ...
I can’t be used in robberies. ...
And I can’t work with drugs, that’s number three. ...
Okay. Last one. Prostitution. ...
And stalactites grow faster than I can write. (c)
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The problem’s more that I have a weak, sensitive nature, as my mum once put it. I suppose she saw herself in me. ... Like her, I’m the sort of person who’s just looking for someone to submit to. Religion, a big-brother figure, a boss. ... I can’t do math either... (c)
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... it’s a bit like once you start getting bad cards, they just keep coming. (c)
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I thought it best to give her a gentle start, just hand-jobs. ... She stood there in floods of tears while Pine yelled at her. Maybe he thought she’d hear him if he shouted loud enough. (c)
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I said ... I’d smash his nose into his brain. To be honest, I’m not sure there was much left of either of them. (c)
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Every so often I suppose we all need to feel that we’re living up to our parents. (c)
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I don’t have to drive, and I mostly kill the sort of men who deserve it, and the numbers aren’t exactly hard to keep track of. Not right now, anyway. (c)
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... in a market run by charlatans, idiots and amateurs, even a distinctly average man could end up king of the castle. (c)
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... I was thinking. I usually try to avoid doing that. It’s not an area where I see any hope of improvement with practice, and experience has taught me that it rarely leads to anything good. (c)
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Sometimes good news is so improbably good that it’s bad. (c)
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I liked looking in on other people. Always had done. (c)
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You’ve only been there until now because there hasn’t been anyone else. You filled a vacuum that I never used to know existed. (c)
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... a man doesn’t get that fucking turned on by you laughing loudly and shrilly in that way deaf people do because he’s managed to write “What lovely eyes you’ve got” with four separate spelling mistakes. (c)
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I had all the time in the world. I liked waiting. I liked the time between making the decision and carrying it out. They were the only minutes, hours, days of my admittedly short life when I was someone. I was someone’s destiny. (c)
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You know someone’s okay if they can ignore things they can’t do anything about and move on. Wish I was like that. (c)
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“It’s complicated.”
“We’ve got plenty of time, ... And as you can see, I haven’t got a television.” (c)
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The fact that he called me lad instead of my name may have been because he didn’t know it, or didn’t want to show me any respect by using it, or else saw no reason to let me know how much—if anything—he knew about me. I guessed the last of the three. (c)
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My mother was so weak. That was why she had to put up with more than even the strongest person could have handled. (c)
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My father said I was studying to become an idiot...
my father used to ask what I thought I was going to do with all that reading. If I thought I was better than he and the rest of the family. They’d managed fine, doing honest work. They never tried to put on airs by learning fancy words and getting lost in stories. When I was sixteen I asked why he didn’t try doing a bit of honest work himself. He beat me black and blue. Said he was raising a kid, and that was enough work for one day. (c)
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I sat there on the shore looking out over the sparkling surface, thinking that this is what we leave behind, a few ripples in water, there for a while and then gone. As if they’d never been there. As if we had never been here. (c)
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“You shouldn’t believe everything you believe, Brynhildsen.” (c)
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“Listen. I’m someone who has chosen to earn their daily bread killing other people. I’m inclined to give people a bit of leeway when it comes to their actions and decisions.” (c)
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... I walked out of the church and I breathed in the raw, cold winter air that still tastes of sea salt even when ice has settled on the fjord. (c)
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And why did that thought pop up just then? Maybe because it suddenly felt like time was waiting for something again, another squeezed second, a spring coiled tight. (c)
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The snowman was properly done. Adorned with a hat, a blank stone grin, and stick arms that seemed to want to embrace the whole of this rotten world and all the crazy shit that happened in it. (c)
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Loose change counts as money. (c)
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She was his own humiliation. And the best, the most human, the most beautiful thing he knew. (c)