Review: "The Polyglot Lovers" by Lina Wolff

It is the coincidence of the year that the book I read in place of the translation of the new Michel Houellbecq novel so thoroughly eviscerates his character within its pages. I knew nothing of The Polyglot Lovers, the second novel of Swedish writer Lina Wolff to be published in English, but according to my rigid reading standards (which I will relax once the new decade rolls around) it filled the void and I’m really glad it did, because as much as I appreciate Houellbecq and his heterodox views, I’ve never liked his books as much as I liked this one, which is thought-provoking without being preachy, intriguing and funny at the same time and leaves no sacred cow of literature intact. On the back it is described as a “contribution to feminism” and not to sound like a broken record held over my previous review, it was hard for me to identify with any of that within this pages, which does not seem to take a side, even in its extremes cases. Funnily enough, much like the French literary bad boy it eloquently skewers, its ambivalence toward its subject matter, whether that be modern relationships, high art versus low art and lack of responsibility that usually comes with the onset of recognition, it is easy it mistake this book for taking a side. Its 244 pages are divided into three section which we learn only later one are working backwards. In the first section, and the best part of the book, we are introduced to Ellinor, slowly creaking toward middle age and desperately lonely, so desperate, she thinks, that she has sunk so low as to try online dating. On the site she meets Ruben, a meek literary critic who woos the chilly Ellinor with his apparent kindness only to turn into something else during a brutal sex scene that verges on becoming a rape. Unusually though, she begins a courtship with him, even after she finds out about his blind psychic wife Mildred. She finds the manuscript belonging to Max Lamas, a writer Ruben is obsessed with and written extensively on and as a sort of petty revenge, she burns the manuscript, of which there is only one copy of, in the fireplace (not the worst thing that happens to it). We then meet Max himself, a character straight out of a Houellbecq novel: smart enough to justify his overactive libido as something more profound, such as his search for the book’s namesake, which he thinks he finds in a put upon receptionist whose boss feels like the funhouse mirror image of Max. The third section focuses on Lucrezia, whose noble family is slowly crumbling and whom Max finds callous inspiration in. Despite a really cool ending section, told epistolary style, the sections do not fit that well together, but on their own they are still a lightning rod, a brutal takedown of elitism, a certain kind of chauvinism and the lies we tell ourselves when we knowingly pursue wrong. 

Rating: 5/5