Harry could feel the adrenaline rush, the trembling that always came when he got first scent of the brute. And after the rush came the Great Obsession. Which was everything at once: love and intoxication, blindness and clear-sightedness, meaning and madness. Colleagues spoke now and then about excitement, but this was something else, something special. He had never told anyone about the Obsession or made any attempt to analyze it. He hadn’t dared. All he knew was that it helped him, drove him, fueled the job he was appointed to perform. He didn’t want to know any more. He really didn’t.

How can one claim to be a nordic crime aficionado without having read Jo Nesbø? It shouldn’t be allowed. With that said, I must confess that The Snowman was only my second Nesbø novel and my introduction to Inspector Harry Hole. My first Nesbø was Headhunters, which gave me such confidence in his craftsmanship that I’ve picked up several books from the Harry Hole series since then, more than willing to venture that when I finally got around to reading them, I would be glad of having my own copies. After reading The Snowman, I am now on the lookout for the rest of the Harry Hole novels to complete my set. He’s that good.

Admittedly, it would have made more sense to start with the first book in the series, The Bat, instead of the seventh. My understanding is that each book can be read as a standalone, but reading them in order provides a more rewarding, contextual experience. Anticipating the upcoming October release of the film, I decided to jump in and read this one first. In The Snowman, Harry finds himself on the trail of what he believes to be Norway’s first official serial killer, dubbed “the Snowman” by the media on account of the killer’s habit of erecting snowmen—not always entirely made of snow—at the sites of his kills. Each time you think Harry’s closing in on the identity of the Snowman, Nesbø yanks the plot through another twist. The story is taught with suspense and devilishly well-paced from start to finish. Speaking of finish—I finished it in three days, simply because I had no choice; there was no putting it down.

Although the cast of supporting characters all shine, Harry Hole is indisputably the star of the show. He’s the quintessential modern antihero, a world-weary detective tortured by love lost and locked in a perpetual battle against addiction. His hardened bitterness only runs so deep, however; beneath the surface he is, in spite of everything, an optimistic soul. No matter how many times society may prove him wrong, he is determined to believe that there is good to be found in mankind, and no matter how many times he is betrayed by both himself and others, his deepest longing is for the freedom to trust.

Nesbø’s prose alone is incredible. He writes with the confidence of one who knows his voice and is comfortable in it—like an old favorite sweater worn every winter. There’s a chilly energy running through his words. At times the characters’ discourse becomes quite introspective, and he’s never afraid to nudge readers to ponder the profound. The humor also is cynical and understated, and I couldn’t get enough of it. I found myself grinning as I imagined Nesbø sitting at his desk penning lines like this one with an impeccable poker face:

Harry drove along Uranienborgveien and Majorstuveien to avoid the traffic lights on Bogstadveien.

Reading The Snowman confirmed what I had already begun to suspect after Headhunters: that when it comes to nordic crime, Jo Nesbø holds his own at the top of the ladder. I’m excited to work my way through the Harry Hole series properly, from beginning to end. With Henning Mankell and Stieg Larsson both having passed from this world, it’s a relief to know that they’ve entrusted the niche to similarly capable writers like Nesbø. More than any other mystery sub-genre, I find that nordic crime has the highest propensity to transform genre fiction into literature. The Snowman is no exception.

“You’re running kind of an a priori investigation, I understand?” Støp said, flopping into the smallest item of furniture, a single molded plastic chair.
“I beg your pardon?” Harry said, sitting on the sofa.
“You’re starting with the solution and working backward to find out how it happened.”
“Is that what ‘a priori’ means?”
“God knows—I just like the sound of Latin.”
“Mm. And what do you think of our solution? Do you believe it?”
“Me?” Støp laughed. “I don’t believe anything. But that’s my profession, of course. As soon as something begins to resemble an established truth, it’s my job to argue against it. That’s what liberalism is.”

Una novela policiaca muy convencional. Bien escrita. Se lee en unas pocas horas y se olvida en unos cuantos minutos.Para leer en un viaje corto si te gusta el género y no tienes ganas de complicarte la existencia.

It is a predictable and fun story.