Høeg’s ‘Quiet Girl’ Too Loud

After ten years of silence, Peter Høeg’s fifth novel “The Quiet Girl” hits Danish and international public alike in the form of a loud and eclectic pseudo-thriller. Labeled as post-modern, magical-realist, social realist, and gothic (to name but a few), dismissed by some as new-age pop philosophy while hailed by others as an astute criticism of civilization in general, it seems that the only agreement that can be reached is that Peter Høeg’s work is hard to place.

In answer to accusations of obscurity, Høeg advises us to read his book again. “I had a lot of time to work [the plot] together into something very condensed. I felt I was taking the reader to the edge; I might have gone farther than I realised.” Though Høeg may have had a decade to write the novel, now available in English thanks to a translation by Nadia Christensen, we unfortunately do not have as much time to decode it. The concept of an implicit criticism of the fast-paced world of today through an intricate plot is meritorious, but neither Høeg’s plot, nor his characters, nor even his style have enough strength to carry this through.

The main protagonist, world-renowned circus clown Kasper, is blessed with incredible hearing verging on telepathy—and also cursed with incredible tax debt. Mysterious and powerful nuns enlist his help in guarding twelve particularly gifted children in exchange for international immunity. After one of them, the eponymous KlaraMaria, is kidnapped, Kasper sets out on a quest to find her, which involves a lot of driving around at night in Copenhagen and a lot of brandy. Confused yet? There’s more. A general corporate conspiracy involving an earthquake, a dying father, monks, and a geologist ex-girlfriend also parade through the novel.

Though “The Quiet Girl” is marketed as a thriller and sports the fast-paced narration typical of the genre, how are we expected to keep up with the race—let alone go through it twice—if the motive behind the running remains so unclear? Kasper is dedicated to saving KlaraMaria yet is unable to explain why. With every escalating sacrifice he makes on his tortuous quest, we grow ever more exasperated. “It’s important to exit on a high note,” Kasper says. If only Høeg had followed his advice rather than leaving us hoping for the end 100 pages before it actually comes.

Circus-clown Kasper Krone provides Høeg with a highly entertaining protagonist as he performs stunt after stunt after stunt—even with his skull cracked open and a bullet wound clear through his midriff. But the novel is overly centered around him and preoccupied with proving to us just how cool he is: yes, he is a smooth talker; yes, he has sex appeal; yes, he is well-read; yes, he is a great acrobat; yes, he is a marvelous violinist and pianist—how long does this list have to be before you switch off and nothing comes as a surprise any longer? It is somewhat difficult to empathize with a character who is portrayed as a demi-god and acts like it, too.

Høeg’s fast and catchy writing skips back and forth between past and present with surprising ease. Though he occasionally lapses into unnecessary repetition, Høeg avoids sounding preachy as he drops tidbits of social criticism into his narrative. When Kasper is in a heartbroken daze, for example, he only “comes to his senses just as he [is] entering a store to buy a television. At that point, he understood how serious the situation was.”

Høeg indeed does take his readers “to the edge”—of their patience, and even further beyond. Whatever in-depth criticism he attempts to convey falls flat as he exasperates his readers with his flighty, unpredictable characters, obscure plot, and sometimes careless and repetitive style. Clowns, like fools in Shakespeare, are traditionally viewed as standing outside of society, looking in while wryly commenting on it. Perhaps Høeg aspires to this role, but by the end of the novel, his antics drive his readers to long with Kasper for the silence and calm that only KlaraMaria, the quiet girl, is able to offer.