Saturday, August 09, 2014

The Son by Jo Nesbø

Am I a cypher? An automaton? An invention? That's it; I am a literary mechanism in the guise of a person, mechanically constructed by a writer. I am The Son by Jo Nesbo, excuse me, Nesbø.

I'll make no bønes about it, Nesbø can write, his problem is he thinks he can write whatever he wants, whether it makes sense or not, and still make the Best Seller lists. And, of course, since he is a contributing member to the Scandinavian Crime Writers Association, he is virtually guaranteed a good position on most lists. Book reviewers and buyers tend to follow the crowd in admiring the Norwegian's New Clothes.

Yet, I am more than a bit confused. I am first revealed as an imprisoned murderer with a major heroin addiction and a blank personality that encourages other prisoners to confess their sins and their crimes to me. I kinda like that about me: stoic, aloof, yet with the power to relieve the burden of guilt from their evil, suffering souls.

But then I lose my cool. I become angry, hostile, vicious, and unbelievably clever and brilliantly attractive to the opposite sex. I am not sure why I'm doing it, but I embark on a crusade of murder and mayhem that totally upends the usual complacent tranquility of the Norwegian establishment.

Although I successfully kick my heroin habit in exchange for a major and persistent sexual awakening, there are serious consequences of my erratic behavior, which I won't go into at this point because certain film people are preparing to adapt my experience to their medium and I am hoping for some more sensible and satisfactory revisions of whatever I am.

No matter, I will always be grateful to Jo Nesbø for manufacturing me with the literary tools and materials at his disposal. It's true I feel a little clunky, but nothing that can't be fixed with a little cinematic tinkering and really good casting.

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