Troll by Johanna Sinisalo unfolds slowly in the hand, like a peculiar wildflower one discovers in the borderlands between the cultivated garden and the untamed forest. The narrative, a labyrinthine construction of personal perspectives and voices—not immediately apparent to the uninitiated reader—creates a literary topography as complex and varied as the Finnish landscape itself.
The flavours of Finland permeate this work with the persistence of pine resin on one’s fingers—impossible to ignore and oddly sticky. Sinisalo’s created world of mythological footnotes possesses a scholarly conviction that would make Borges himself raise an appreciative eyebrow. Here is speculative fiction that weaves Finnish folklore into the modern-day tapestry with all the dexterity of a master weaver working at midnight under the influence of both academic rigor and hallucinogenic mushrooms.
Our tale begins—as so many queer epiphanies do—with an act of rescue. A young gay photographer named Angel (and truly, what more perfect nomenclature for a beautiful being straddling worlds?) saves a troll from the Neanderthalian justice of street thugs. This intervention catapults us into the narrative’s central preoccupation: the collision of the wild and the civilised, the rational and the instinctual—dichotomies that queer existence has long navigated with particular dexterity.
Sinisalo is a pioneer of the Finnish Weird and here they examine these themes with unflinching honesty, crafting a story that is as intellectually stimulating as a seminar on post-structuralist theory and as emotionally charged as a breakup in a thunderstorm. The tension builds with the steady inevitability of desire itself, culminating in a finale both devastating and inevitable—rather like capitalism or a particularly intense relationship.
I must confess to experiencing a rather choppy reading journey, like attempting to navigate Finnish archipelago waters in a vessel designed for the Mediterranean. It proves difficult to connect with or care deeply about the characters, though one suspects this emotional distancing effect was deliberate. A victim of human trafficking residing in Angel’s building—contributes precious little beyond serving as another worshipper at the altar of Angel’s stunning beauty, reinforcing his position as the sun around which all lesser celestial bodies are doomed to orbit.
Angel himself emerges as supremely selfish, embodying that peculiar brand of narcissism that can transform beauty from gift to weapon. One is reminded of Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray, though perhaps with less charm and more Finnish melancholy.
Is this a treatise on how obsession with ownership undermines our connection to others? A prescient meditation on climate change consequences? An exploration of obedience, transgression, and desire? Perhaps, like all significant art, it is a mirror reflecting whatever existential crises we bring to its surface.
The book grapples with humanity, love, freedom, and morality with all the ambition of a graduate philosophy seminar after several rounds of particularly potent vodka. For this reader, the work had a few faults—some forgivable in service to style, others less so—but it remains an enigmatic and provocative addition to the queer literary canon, inviting us to question the boundaries between human and animal, civilisation and wilderness, self and other.
Much like the troll itself, this novel refuses domestication while simultaneously demanding our attention—a paradox worth experiencing, despite the occasional narrative bramble patch one must navigate to reach its strange and haunting heart.
Out now, £9.99
For more information or to order the book see the publisher’s website here:
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