I've said at least twice, in writing, that I wouldn't read this book because it sounds too twee. And it is twee, but not excruciatingly so. Maybe this is the same part of me talking that actually rather liked 500 Days of Summer in the cinema. The description here isn't as sickly-oversweet as in Catherynne M. Valente's Fairyland. And life is not exactly perfect: as the story opens, the protagonist's father has Alzheimers in his 50s. But the book is twee in that even when something unpleasant is mentioned, the description is not emotionally raw (sometimes you need that for a change, instead of being continually wrenched) and we get a lot of reversion to a child[like] perspective: for instance, as Ella drives her parents' car Her place in this car with these people was on the back seat on the right. Not 'was once' (which would have given a nice tingle of nostalgia, especially if with some cultural detail of twenty years ago) - this instead is a 26 year old still living within the child-self, playing teacher in a small town where mythological decorations are everywhere, and amazingly most locals like them and they're given frequently as gifts, rather than being exasperating tourist tat and/or a job. Their preponderance is thanks to supernatural murmurings in the vicinity, plus resident world-famous children's author Laura White - or Laura Lumikko in the original. Another great way for a translated book to get on the wrong side of me. Anglicise the bloody names why? Provide footnotes if the meanings are important, please (and they weren't very.) Leaving the names of the mythological beings in Finnish, rather than saying 'gnomes', 'nixies', etc, would have also improved the sense of place - though I think I'm part of a different translated fiction market from the one this book's aimed at. Anyway, Lumikko's creations are analogous to Moomins in their place in Finnish and world culture, though she's a completely different personality from Tove Jansson.
Martti, meanwhile, has wandered in from another book, something by a middling imitator of Updike, Roth and Amis. The rest of The Rabbit Back Literature Society is recognisable as subcultural genre twee + dark. (A lot of twee things for adults are very dark in places, but it tends to surprise people, because it rarely gels as well as it does in, say, Edward Gorey. Although the obliqueness and strangeness of its not gelling is also part of the attraction.) Martti is fully - and gigantically - embodied; one hears what it feels like to be him, (I imagined him as a hugely obese version of Jääskeläinen) whilst everyone else is a sketch, seen from the outside; the heroine, Ella, sees herself more often than not from the outside too.
I loved reading a book which didn't make me feel anything much, it was just a story. (Not necessarily a common reaction to this novel - some have found it disturbing.) Fiction can be exhausting to me because it nearly always has emotional resonance, and/or I end up identifying with someone. (A problem with crime fiction - I mean it to be low-effort reading, but usually end up identifying with some grumpy detective). And non-fiction there's just too bloody much I want to note and discuss. Here, I didn't identify with anyone, no-one was so annoying I couldn't put up with them for a short while (though wouldn't be in a hurry to read about them again) and nothing, even the most unpleasant bits, was written in a way that really got under my skin. Perhaps also because characters accept a lot of weird stuff, and to process it they usually sleep rather than think and angst about it. I would briefly think such and such was an unusual reaction; or that it was perceptive to show people wanting to ignore each other after they'd had to break so many boundaries with not-wholly voluntary personal revelations; or a lot of readers wouldn't like that bit. But that was it, nothing wrenching my emotions all over the place. Hang on, this is what reading used to feel like when I was a kid; reading that actually feels like leisure, escapism, almost like watching sport when I'm not rooting for anyone particular; it didn't always used to be emotional labour.
N.B. If you've read the book and aren't sure you've worked out the whole mystery, there's a post on the author's blog that will help.