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Editorial Reviews
Amazon.com
If you ponder life as an immature Icelandic slacker, then you'll want to check out Hallgrímur Helgason's novel 101 Reykjavík. Hlynur Bjorn lives at home, watches TV and porn when he's not getting high with his divorced mom and/or her lesbian lover, and sluffs off to bars most nights to put a dollar value on women (based on desirability) while hanging out with his equally bored friends. By the time Hlynur faces moral challenges, it's difficult to find reason to care. Hlynur's thoughts are detailed, shotgun style, with some wit and humor (though much is forced), and a strangeness one hopes is the result of Icelandic idiom lost in translation. In a gay couple's bedroom, Hylnur and Hofy enter into this exchange, typifying Helgason's disjointed style:
From Publishers Weekly
Hlynur Bjorn is, by his own admission, a 33-year-old mommy's boy. He lives at home, spends his days watching porn and surfing the Web, and his nights at Reykjavik's nightclubs drinking and taking Ecstasy. He assigns every woman he encounters a monetary value and refuses to commit to spending even a full night with his casual girlfriend, Hofy. When Hofy falls pregnant and his mother announces that her lesbian lover, Lolla, whom Hlynur slept with on New Year's Eve, is also pregnant, he must fight to protect his selfish and shallow way of life. Hlynur tells his own story; although he is clearly intended as a slacker antihero, his humor is so forced ("Iceland is a wind-beaten asshole and Icelanders are the lice on its edge") and his fixations so unoriginal (he likes "two kinds of women: mothers and whores") that his narrative becomes tiresome. Garbled prose ("I slowly return toward the body I left behind, like a car with a running engine") doesn't help, though the translator struggles valiantly with Hlynur's endless punning. When both Hofy and Lolla inform him that he is not the father of their babies, Hlynur becomes more bitter and callous than ever. Realizing that he needs to get out of Reykjavik for a while, he travels to Europe, where he ends up embarking upon his most loathsome attempt at self-destruction yet: trying to contract HIV by having unprotected sex with a prostitute. At this point the novel falls apart. Hlynur is so thoroughly unsympathetic, his antics such a dispiriting blend of pathetic, abhorrent and banal, that the reader ceases caring what happens to him (he neither redeems nor destroys himself). As Hlynur puts it himself, "Was I funny or plain idiotic? Yeah."
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.
See all Editorial Reviews
If you ponder life as an immature Icelandic slacker, then you'll want to check out Hallgrímur Helgason's novel 101 Reykjavík. Hlynur Bjorn lives at home, watches TV and porn when he's not getting high with his divorced mom and/or her lesbian lover, and sluffs off to bars most nights to put a dollar value on women (based on desirability) while hanging out with his equally bored friends. By the time Hlynur faces moral challenges, it's difficult to find reason to care. Hlynur's thoughts are detailed, shotgun style, with some wit and humor (though much is forced), and a strangeness one hopes is the result of Icelandic idiom lost in translation. In a gay couple's bedroom, Hylnur and Hofy enter into this exchange, typifying Helgason's disjointed style:
"Why did you sleep with me?"
Spock.
Hofy turns and looks at me propped up on my elbows with Rosy's hat on my head. Must look pretty weird, I suppose. I tilt my head to allow the hat to fall off, and look up at the ceiling. Looking down at me are two fat, hand-painted, and pretty well-hung angels. Nice one, guys. It's like that chapel in St. Peter's. Michelangelo was gay. Yeah. Maybe it's all in the Bible. I look at her again.
"Why did I sleep with you?"To be sure, 101 Reykjavík captures the ennui of a cold, depressed generation (and nation), but if "[w]ords are snowflakes. They fall," Helgason might have tried to clear a better path. --Michael Ferch
From Publishers Weekly
Hlynur Bjorn is, by his own admission, a 33-year-old mommy's boy. He lives at home, spends his days watching porn and surfing the Web, and his nights at Reykjavik's nightclubs drinking and taking Ecstasy. He assigns every woman he encounters a monetary value and refuses to commit to spending even a full night with his casual girlfriend, Hofy. When Hofy falls pregnant and his mother announces that her lesbian lover, Lolla, whom Hlynur slept with on New Year's Eve, is also pregnant, he must fight to protect his selfish and shallow way of life. Hlynur tells his own story; although he is clearly intended as a slacker antihero, his humor is so forced ("Iceland is a wind-beaten asshole and Icelanders are the lice on its edge") and his fixations so unoriginal (he likes "two kinds of women: mothers and whores") that his narrative becomes tiresome. Garbled prose ("I slowly return toward the body I left behind, like a car with a running engine") doesn't help, though the translator struggles valiantly with Hlynur's endless punning. When both Hofy and Lolla inform him that he is not the father of their babies, Hlynur becomes more bitter and callous than ever. Realizing that he needs to get out of Reykjavik for a while, he travels to Europe, where he ends up embarking upon his most loathsome attempt at self-destruction yet: trying to contract HIV by having unprotected sex with a prostitute. At this point the novel falls apart. Hlynur is so thoroughly unsympathetic, his antics such a dispiriting blend of pathetic, abhorrent and banal, that the reader ceases caring what happens to him (he neither redeems nor destroys himself). As Hlynur puts it himself, "Was I funny or plain idiotic? Yeah."
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.
See all Editorial Reviews
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