
When I say I liked it, that doesn’t necessarily mean it was a good book. It was just a good read, at the right time, and had some redeeming qualities. Like the first book in the trilogy, The Girl Who Played With Fire is an intentional blockbuster. It reads like a screenplay (and immediately became a movie) with chase scenes, violence, sex galore. The interesting part is the locale: the whole book is set in Sweden, and not just Stockholm. Part of the tension is about the inability of the villains to get lost in the crowd; in such a small country it’s just a matter of time before the police catch up. The bad guys tend to be chauvinist as well. I can’t argue with that. I wonder if the author was aware of the impressions he gave of his country, or if he was just writing naturally for a domestic audience. The hero is actually car-free. He chases down clues on the train, or has his sister drive him. Another crazy detail is the tobacco. In modern novels (especially on screen) the heros don’t smoke, much less the heroines. Stieg Larrson was a smoker, it seems, and the lead characters will light up every time they a.) finish having sex, b.) have a close call. Do not read this book if you’re trying to quit. The jones is on you. Sadly, Stieg Larrson passed away from a heart attack shortly after turning the manuscripts over to be published. He had an affinity for classic mysteries, and no shortage of energy as a writer. To his credit, the suspense in this book had me skipping ahead at least twice, though I was laughing at the results.
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