WHO: Jo Nesbo
WHAT: MIDNIGHT SUN, a novel
WHEN: Published by Knopf February 16, 2016
WHERE: The story is set in Norway.
WHY: “Darkly funny and deadly serious.
“Jon, the narrator of this excellent standalone from Nesbø, is a ‘fixer,’ or hit man, akin to the hero of Blood on Snow. Jon, who has done jobs for an Oslo crime boss known as the Fisherman, has fled the city for Kåsund, a tiny village in the far north populated by Sami (Lapps) and dominated by a very strict religious ethos. Taking refuge in a church, he tells the townspeople he meets that his name is Ulf.
“A stranger in a strange land, Ulf slowly reveals what led him to leave Oslo: a failed hit and a theft that has Johnny Moe, the Fisherman’s henchman, after him. Ulf is a bad boy with a heart of gold; he got into trouble because he was trying to help someone close to him. His self-mocking deprecations are endearing: ‘Not that I’m an irresponsible or careless person; I’ve just got really bad judgment.’
“Immaculately plotted and perfectly paced, the book is also darkly funny and deadly serious. Scandinavian gloom notwithstanding, it has a neatly satisfying and surprisingly moving ending.” —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, in a featured boxed review
“From Scandinavian noir’s top living writer…crime novel, character study, and closed-society romance.” —Keir Graff, BOOKLIST
From the beginning of the book: How are we to start this story? I wish I could say that we’ll start at the beginning. But I don’t know where it starts. Just like everyone else, I’m not truly aware of the real sequence of cause and effect in my life. Does the story start when I realized that I was only the fourth-best soccer player in the class? When Basse, my grandfather, showed me the drawings — his own drawings — of La Sagrada Familia? When I took my first drag on a cigarette and heard by first track by the Grateful Dead? When I read Kant at university and thought I understood it? When I sold my first lump of hash? Or did it start when I kissed Bobby — who’s actually a girl — or the first time I saw the tiny, wrinkled creature who would end up being called Anna screaming up at me? Perhaps it was when I was sitting in the Fisherman’s stinking back room and he was telling me what he wanted me to do. I don’t know. We store up all sorts of stories with fabricated logic, so that life can look as though it has some meaning.
Translated from the Norwegian by Neil Smith.
Publicist for this title:
Helen Tobin | 212-572-2018 | firstname.lastname@example.org