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A review by rubeusbeaky
Icelander by Dustin Long
3.0
What did I just read? XD
This book has largely gotten reviews as a comedic parody-mystery with some fantasy adventure thrown in. The cover would seem to suggest that a big, fantastical event is going to occur. The blurb which called this debut "Lemony Snicket for adults" was the whole reason I bought it, as I adore Mr. Snicket's absurdism, rewards for diligent readers, fourth-wall-breaking and philosophical commentary.
This book /has/ those elements... and yet it is /none/ of those things.
The parody of a mystery, where Our Heroine doesn't want to investigate the mystery, and a string of characters - including her - end up investigating her non-investigation as if it were the answer to the central mystery... is /cute/. It's a /cute/ joke, it got a chuckle. But after a couple hundred pages, you realize the various characters are going around in circles chasing nothing, and /you/ are being led to nothing, which is boring. If you're waiting for a break in the parody to provide conflict-resolution for the central mystery, you won't get it.
This story takes place in an alternate modern era, where Vikings were the primary colonial force and cultural influencer, and Norse mythology has some scraps of truth. There is a whole underground society, with a martial arts system inspired by the stealth of the arctic fox, its movements akin to ninjitsu. You would think the cultural differences of this alternate reality, and its clash with fox ninjas, would be plenty of meat for a story! Alas, these cool concepts are mostly background fodder. The big clash between surface and below is just a metaphor summed up in an afterword.
What, then, is this book? A mystery which doesn't resolve, a comedy which isn't that funny, an adventure which doesn't take action... In the end, what's left is all meta-commentary about the importance of perception and writing. It is the story of how we all have multiple biographies: What we know of ourselves, what we show of ourselves, and what other people interpret of us. The themes are reinforced by having multiple, fictional authors and investigators attempting to write about people or interpret the writings /of/ people. It's all very dizzying. There are brilliant insights into both writing and the human condition. But Writers Writing About Writing is SO pretentious. The fact that the central murder mystery is related to the cultural significance of writing is just... so... self-congratulatory. And I don't think this book did enough /else/ to merit its arrogance.
Finally, this book seemed to want to be an experiment in "feminine storytelling". The murder victim, Shirley, describes at one point how Western storytelling is masculine: It builds to a climax then ends. She imagined a feminine story structure: secretive, meandering, as much about what was withheld as what was obvious, leading to tiny, building rewards along its various subplots, until climaxing at perhaps multiple points, and then having a long denouement to resolve everything. After reading her description, and putting it together with the author's choice to name various characters after sexual acts, I thought maybe he was tipping his hand and telling readers to read this book from a feminine sexual-lens... OR, that the author was laughing at us for trying to read TOO much into the book, and hitting investigative readers with a giant sex joke for all of their sleuthing. If a meta book about being an observant reader doesn't /reward/ its readers, then is the whole point a satire? A big middle finger for reading at all? That's cruel. And if the book is just a sex joke, it went over my head, and was in poor taste, since the context holding the joke is a woman grieving her dead mother, dead friend, and estranged husband. AND if the book is trying to be a revolutionary, feminine story structure, I - a woman - have a problem with its lack of climax, heavily dissatisfying.
It's rare that I can't tell if a book is too smart for me, or too dumb. But either way, much as I appreciated the concept and metaphors, those mechanics are not /enough/ to carry a book. A good mental exercise. A lousy story.
This book has largely gotten reviews as a comedic parody-mystery with some fantasy adventure thrown in. The cover would seem to suggest that a big, fantastical event is going to occur. The blurb which called this debut "Lemony Snicket for adults" was the whole reason I bought it, as I adore Mr. Snicket's absurdism, rewards for diligent readers, fourth-wall-breaking and philosophical commentary.
This book /has/ those elements... and yet it is /none/ of those things.
The parody of a mystery, where Our Heroine doesn't want to investigate the mystery, and a string of characters - including her - end up investigating her non-investigation as if it were the answer to the central mystery... is /cute/. It's a /cute/ joke, it got a chuckle. But after a couple hundred pages, you realize the various characters are going around in circles chasing nothing, and /you/ are being led to nothing, which is boring. If you're waiting for a break in the parody to provide conflict-resolution for the central mystery, you won't get it.
This story takes place in an alternate modern era, where Vikings were the primary colonial force and cultural influencer, and Norse mythology has some scraps of truth. There is a whole underground society, with a martial arts system inspired by the stealth of the arctic fox, its movements akin to ninjitsu. You would think the cultural differences of this alternate reality, and its clash with fox ninjas, would be plenty of meat for a story! Alas, these cool concepts are mostly background fodder. The big clash between surface and below is just a metaphor summed up in an afterword.
What, then, is this book? A mystery which doesn't resolve, a comedy which isn't that funny, an adventure which doesn't take action... In the end, what's left is all meta-commentary about the importance of perception and writing. It is the story of how we all have multiple biographies: What we know of ourselves, what we show of ourselves, and what other people interpret of us. The themes are reinforced by having multiple, fictional authors and investigators attempting to write about people or interpret the writings /of/ people. It's all very dizzying. There are brilliant insights into both writing and the human condition. But Writers Writing About Writing is SO pretentious. The fact that the central murder mystery is related to the cultural significance of writing is just... so... self-congratulatory. And I don't think this book did enough /else/ to merit its arrogance.
Finally, this book seemed to want to be an experiment in "feminine storytelling". The murder victim, Shirley, describes at one point how Western storytelling is masculine: It builds to a climax then ends. She imagined a feminine story structure: secretive, meandering, as much about what was withheld as what was obvious, leading to tiny, building rewards along its various subplots, until climaxing at perhaps multiple points, and then having a long denouement to resolve everything. After reading her description, and putting it together with the author's choice to name various characters after sexual acts, I thought maybe he was tipping his hand and telling readers to read this book from a feminine sexual-lens... OR, that the author was laughing at us for trying to read TOO much into the book, and hitting investigative readers with a giant sex joke for all of their sleuthing. If a meta book about being an observant reader doesn't /reward/ its readers, then is the whole point a satire? A big middle finger for reading at all? That's cruel. And if the book is just a sex joke, it went over my head, and was in poor taste, since the context holding the joke is a woman grieving her dead mother, dead friend, and estranged husband. AND if the book is trying to be a revolutionary, feminine story structure, I - a woman - have a problem with its lack of climax, heavily dissatisfying.
It's rare that I can't tell if a book is too smart for me, or too dumb. But either way, much as I appreciated the concept and metaphors, those mechanics are not /enough/ to carry a book. A good mental exercise. A lousy story.