Ernst Smith reiser til den lille kystbyen Arcachon, Frankrike, for å hvile. Han leier en ombygget garasje. Men noe uroer ham: Duftene etter mennesket som bodde der før ham, og verten i huset ved siden av som alltid banker i gulvet med krykken. Første natt finner han en tykk svart snegle på gulvet. Neste dag finner han en filmrull i et skap. Ernst Smith får ikke hvile.
For denne mesterlige poetiske thrilleren fikk Lars Saabye Christensen Rivertonprisen i 1987.
Lars Saabye Christensen is a gifted storyteller, a narrator who is imaginative, but equally down to earth. His realism alternates between poetic image and ingenious incident, conveyed in supple metropolitan language and slang that never smacks of the artificial or forced. His heroes possess a good deal of self-irony. Indeed, critics have drawn parallels with the black humour of Woody Allen. But beneath the liveliness of his portrayal melancholy always lurks in the books. Since his début in 1976 Saabye Christensen has written ten collections of poetry, five collections of short stories and twelve novels. His great break through came with the novel Beatles in 1984. The book store sale of over 200,000 copies of the Norwegian edition has made this one of the greatest commercial successes in Norway, and it was voted the best novel of the last 25 years by Dagbladet's readers in 2006.
[3.5/4.0] Joda, dette er umiskjennelig Saabye Christensen, men jeg er ikke helt sikker på om jeg syns at stemmen hans passer helt inn i en slik nesten-krim-aktig historie. Jeg tar meg i å ønske mer detaljer, flere finurlige beskrivelser av hverdagslige hendelser, mer boring inn i karakterenes tanker, mer sentimentalitet, i det hele tatt mer Saabye Christensen-het. Eller, jeg tar meg i å ønske mer spenning, mer krim, flere tvister, mer uforutsigbarhet, i det hele tatt mer Jo Nesbø-het. En grei bok å ha lest, jeg sluker med glede alt som Saabye Christensen skriver, men denne er ganske langt unna det beste fra hans penn. Og så blei jeg litt distrahert av det overordentlige riksmålet han begår i denne boka, men jeg blei jo vant til det også etterhvert.
This being only my second Lars Saabye Christensen book (of many), I was both disappointed and satisfied. Disappointed as it turned out to be a glorified crime novel (shudders), yet satisfied as it had all the elements of a good Christensen novel. The absurd plot, relatable characters, and damn good writing. I enjoyed it, I just wished the plot was different. It's still a Christensen book which means it was good, but I doubt it'll ever be my favourite Christensen yakno?