Just finished reading Jo Nesbo's The Snowman. I'd felt the need for something with narrative pace and a bit of mystery about it and heard enough good things about this particular bit of Nordic Noir to take the plunge. In the event I found the plot mildly preposterous but not so silly as to make me stop reading. But the level of unpleasant violence, particularly against women, with links to sexual obsession did make me wonder exactly why I'd chosen to entertain myself in this manner.
The problem with the whole serial killer genre is how essentially uninteresting the obsessive monsters on which it feeds, or thrives, turn out to be. Indeed, I suppose that's true of actual serial killers. The central premise that the world is an ugly sort of place leads inexorably to insistently shallow cynicism.
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