I love trolls. On my mantle above the fire place I have several troll figurines. When I was little living in Scotland, our house was just across the street from a cairn. My mom used to tell me that a troll was sleeping under the cairn so I mustn’t climb it or I’ll wake him. I was never taught to be afraid of trolls. I was just taught never to make them angry, you know, a bit like dads. For most of my childhood I actually believed that we had our very own house troll. He lived as a figurine by day, standing next to our front door. Very ugly bastard. I used to try and brush his hair thinking it would help but it didn’t. By night he would come alive and guard the house for us, or at least, that’s what my mom told me. I liked the idea because it helped to explain the strange creaking noises that I heard at night coming from downstairs.
Troll: A Love Story is written by Finnish author Johanna Sinisalo. It took me about five chapters before I realized that the main character was a gay man, not a hetero woman. Brilliantly deceptive (then again, I could of just read the synopsis on the back of the book). I loved it. For once we get to imagine a troll as a process of evolution as opposed to a mythical creature. Poor trolls, get such a bad rap, always thought of as evil goblin like creatures. Nowadays, people even use the word “troll” to describe an internet menace. In D&D, trolls are considered one of the hardest most nasty creatures to kill. I have always imagined them a little twisted and probably pretty mischiveious but not altogether evil.
“Naturally, no one goes and sits with her. She’s been here before, and everyone gives her the ice-cold shoulder, yet still she turns up again and again. Someone might argue we’re zoo animals for her. But I’ve another theory. For her, we’re nobel savages, a kind of gray area outside the respectable, minutely organized community, an untamed wilderness it takes a lot of guts to step into. But if you dare, there’s a glorious smell of freedom floating around your trousers and giving the finger to society, making everyone an instant anarchist. Certainly, for her coming here is like putting a temporary tatoo on your shoulder: there’s the thrill of deviance with none of the dull commitment-and she’ll never have to wonder whether she’s too weird to be seen out before dark.”
“Drunk, you can think about things as if you were observing poisonous insects inside tightly lidded jars of thick glass, while a sober view would be a walk through thickets of the same swarming crawlies, which can land on your unprotected neck or leg if you’re not on the alert every second.”
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