I loved “Siamese,” the first book in this so-called “S Trilogy.” It is one of the darker books I have ever read, and made me ponder just how black black can get. (Review here.)

This book is quite different, and it showcases qualities of Saeterbakken that I didn’t like as much: his penchant for nauseating detail, which he thinks of as darkly humorous (a man smells his cold sweaty feet, and wonders why he enjoys the smell); his tendency to write in a succession of set pieces (in this book each ends with an exemplary loss of self-control); his way of characterizing people using the most disgusting possible images (a man who spends his day swatting flies, whose arm is covered with tiny fly bites); his general feeling that life is a succession of awkward, humiliating, embarrassing, and futile experiences.

But this book does have an overall arc, from a genuine tragedy, briefly glimpsed, through a series of trivial and ridiculous social failures, and back suddenly to the real tragedy. That arc does hold it together, if only in retrospect. But I may not read the third book in the trilogy (it hasn’t yet been translated), because I think that Saeterbakken’s attraction to dark comedy, embarrassment, and awkwardness are still standing in the way of any more substantial pessimism. All the little gaffes, sweaty palms, fears, blushes, and tics are meant as entertainments and even as expressive vehicles: but actually they are bandages that soothe, protect, and hide the deeper wounds. I would love it if Saeterbakken would just give them up. I don’t want to laugh (I don’t, anyway) or shiver in repulsion (I seldom do, anyway). Those things are ineffectual distractions from what really matters. The main character in this book, as in “Siamese,” is desperately unhappy and scarcely knows why. I would have liked to sit him down and get him to talk about that. ( )