GIRLS AGAINST GOD

An obliquely experimental stream-of-consciousness novel.

It’s almost impossible to say what Hval’s latest novel is about. It’s not even clear that it is a novel. An unnamed narrator delivers a monologue that touches on, among other things, Norwegian black metal, Edvard Munch’s painting Puberty, porn, avant-garde film, and witchcraft. The narrator grew up in the 1990s in southern Norway, where she found herself nearly stifled by religious and social conservatism. The best parts of the book are her extended analyses of these topics, as when she writes that “Maybe the only way an artist can escape capitalism and patriarchy today is to use art to disappear as an individual.” But there are far more passages that don’t really make any sense at all. In these moments, Hval seems to aspire to an absurdist surrealism that she never quite reaches: Her narrator is too constrained by her own anger and frustration to achieve humor or even whimsy. It’s not just that it’s difficult to follow her thought processes; it’s that in throwing off every convention of fiction—and memoir, and scriptwriting—the book becomes almost entirely solipsistic. Every image, phrase, and reference winds up referring only to the narrator herself, and one wonders if, in the end, she’s become even more constrained than she was to begin with.

Astute observations are marred by extended passages of evasive, self-indulgent prose.