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A review by doreeny
Blood on Snow by Jo Nesbø
3.0
The narrator of this short novel is Olav Johansen, a contract killer, or “fixer.” His latest job is to fix his crime lord boss’s beautiful, unfaithful wife. From the beginning things go wrong.
This standalone is not one of Nesbø’s Harry Hole novels, and it is not of the quality of that series. It is much shorter and I found the plot very predictable. Some readers have said they were shocked by the last chapter, but there is so much foreshadowing that I did not find it a surprise. I did find the use of a different point of view at the end to be a form of cheating.
For me, the interest lay in determining if I was correct in my conclusions about Olav. It is certainly obvious from the beginning that Olav is not a reliable narrator. He portrays himself as a sensitive soul: “I’m way too soft, I fall in love far too easily” (13). Yet he admits to cold-blooded and sometimes brutal killings. He also likes to see himself as a simple person who doesn’t know much: “I’ve read a bit, but I don’t really know much” (13). This last bit he keeps repeating: “I don’t actually know a lot about . . . much” (5) and “But what did I know” (5) and “But what do I know” (6). Yet it turns out that not only has he read Norwegian literature, but he is familiar with a number of English authors and is currently reading Les Misérables. He also readily admits that he will change a story if he finds it unsatisfactory in some way; as a child, he told his mother, “I just want to make up stories” (150). All this suggests that his own narrative may be more invention than reality.
This is a quick read, ideal for a couple of hours on a rainy day or for a short flight. Though it is sufficiently entertaining, it will certainly not have the emotional impact of Nesbø’s other novels.
Please check out my reader's blog (http://schatjesshelves.blogspot.ca/) and follow me on Twitter (@DCYakabuski).
This standalone is not one of Nesbø’s Harry Hole novels, and it is not of the quality of that series. It is much shorter and I found the plot very predictable. Some readers have said they were shocked by the last chapter, but there is so much foreshadowing that I did not find it a surprise. I did find the use of a different point of view at the end to be a form of cheating.
For me, the interest lay in determining if I was correct in my conclusions about Olav. It is certainly obvious from the beginning that Olav is not a reliable narrator. He portrays himself as a sensitive soul: “I’m way too soft, I fall in love far too easily” (13). Yet he admits to cold-blooded and sometimes brutal killings. He also likes to see himself as a simple person who doesn’t know much: “I’ve read a bit, but I don’t really know much” (13). This last bit he keeps repeating: “I don’t actually know a lot about . . . much” (5) and “But what did I know” (5) and “But what do I know” (6). Yet it turns out that not only has he read Norwegian literature, but he is familiar with a number of English authors and is currently reading Les Misérables. He also readily admits that he will change a story if he finds it unsatisfactory in some way; as a child, he told his mother, “I just want to make up stories” (150). All this suggests that his own narrative may be more invention than reality.
This is a quick read, ideal for a couple of hours on a rainy day or for a short flight. Though it is sufficiently entertaining, it will certainly not have the emotional impact of Nesbø’s other novels.
Please check out my reader's blog (http://schatjesshelves.blogspot.ca/) and follow me on Twitter (@DCYakabuski).