TROLL

A fiction debut in which an anonymous internet troll has a kind of quarter-life crisis.

In this sprawling, rambunctious novel, Fitzgerald places his unnamed main character—an aimless, dissolute, perpetually horny online troll—on the cusp of a deep-seated personal dilemma. When he graduated from college (it was years ago, but he still has infinite student loans to pay off), his remaining friends warned him, “You have to get out of this town the second you graduate, or else you’ll never leave.” And the warning has come true: “No matter what route you take home,” the narrator tells himself, “you’re guaranteed to see a University bus whizz by or glimpse one of the crumbling dormitories you used to call home—teeming, iniquitous high-rises after J. G. Ballard's own heart.” The entire novel is set in the second person—a bit of a workout, especially over 500 pages, but the author pulls it off with impressive skill. The narrative follows its hapless main character through his largely aimless days, varying from online porn to large amounts of alcohol and marijuana. These misadventures are punctuated with long excerpts from the protagonist’s writings on pop culture and the nature of the perpetually online modern world. “Thanks to vertically integrated marketing strategies and the commodification of ‘cool,’ true originality has almost ceased to exist,” he muses in typically caustic terms. “Individually, we may all be snowflakes, but together, we’re a fucking whiteout.” As this tour through the protagonist’s tortured psyche reaches a crisis point, it is obvious something has to give, and soon.

In addition to successfully employing a seldom-used narrative point of view, Fitzgerald also accomplishes several other daring feats. The novel's narrative manages to be crude without being stupid and eloquent without having anything remotely pleasant to say. The author's sheer exuberance in describing everything from a mood shift to a bar fight is unflagging: “Wild-pitched shot- and pint-glasses shell the liquor display behind the bar like a knock-em-over carnival game, sending a waterfall of spirits crashing from the top shelf down,” goes one such moment. “The staff retreat to the back offices soaked in their own wares—their cuts and scrapes pre-sterilized by the downpour—and opportunistic alkies start absconding with whatever merchandise is still intact while the rest of the crowd makes for the door.” Our troll-ish main character grouses about the artificiality of online culture. There are many scenes driven by grotesque Pynchon-esque humor: After a particularly nasty incident, a bathroom is described as “a GG Allin-themed sanguinarium.” And the main character's lengthy dissertations on classic TV shows like Family Guy, The Simpsons, and especially Friends are genuinely fascinating. By the time “some migratory, sea turtle-type level” prompts the main character to one final epic feat of trolling, readers will be rooting for him despite his despicable ways.

A cynical, misanthropic, foulmouthed novel that no curious reader will be able to put down.