Troll reads like a desk drawer full of drafts, a series of attempts at making the same poem over and over. The mystique initially swells and swirls and pulls you along, down into the deep dark woods where a troll rails against the executioner's investiture that's been forced upon her, where God is a fickle thing carved out of the earth and parents plot the death - but not the murder - of their child. It's an exciting premise, but, unfortunately, a premise it largely remains.
I want to say Troll is promising, but it's more of a promise, really, or perhaps repeated assurances. It's about capitalism, you see, it's discourse on environmentalism, it's about grief, faith, violence. Soon, it says, soon this will all pay off. Did you like the part about the wound that turns into a drum, the tears and holes and all the dark places, the barks and the bells and the knives that run in them? Indeed, I like them well enough. But like a child showing off their favourite toys, Troll insists on retreading the same handful of metaphors and allegories until they're worn to the point of snapping. Throughout, everything feels safe and bland, and the grim fairy tale tone falls flat - the troll has no teeth.
If you've read the blurb on the cover, you've already imagined a better book than what Troll manages to become by the time you reach the end. I suppose there is some comfort to be found in the fact that it only takes 132 pages to realise you've been bamboozled.