1883 Like ‘signing a waiver to having your blood pressure raised’

Troll
By Logan Macnair

Vancouver: Now Or Never Press, 2023

19.95 / 9781989689479

Reviewed by Jessica Poon

*

I used to work in an indie bookstore that would not stock Jordan Peterson’s books. At the time, I was miraculously ignorant about Peterson’s existence; life was 3.5% better. When I realized why my former boss staunchly rebuffed Peterson, I wasn’t sure what to think. On the one hand, it did seem like an appealingly simplistic way to uphold certain values and feel judiciously moralistic. On the other hand, the refusal struck me as borderline parochial—all the while rejecting Peterson’s own brand of parochialism meant to assist men by invoking lobsters. Plus, questionable as a tactic. Insofar as whichever disempowered man it was who wanted Peterson’s books badly enough to make a phone call was probably going to procure a title, more efficiently, from Amazon. In other words, by preventing this prospective customer from patronizing our charming indie bookstore, we weren’t actually preventing retrograde propagandistic philosophies from being disseminated. 

My admirably progressive former boss, men as lobsters, and what role, if any, paternalism should have when it comes to the Internet, all came to mind when I read Troll by Logan Macnair. Troll is a smartly written, appropriately discursive book that will surely mould your face into a range of dismayed expressions, as is its presumable intention. This is fiction about the Internet that is terrifyingly accurate. It’s safe to say the Internet is a veritable character. Troll is not a linear, chronological novel but rather a story told through blog posts, YouTube comments (these were so uncanny I wondered if they were copied and pasted), university lectures, op-eds by journalists, the protagonist’s confessions, and discussion threads on sites reminiscent of Reddit. If you have an attention span compromised beyond resuscitation, like everyone else who has ever been exposed to the Internet, rest assured: Troll will hold your attention. 

Macnair’s protagonist, Peter Riley, renowned for an Internet persona known as “Petrol,” may bring to mind Jordan Peterson. Here’s what’s interesting, though: Petrol, unlike Peters0n, doesn’t really believe the anachronistically misogynistic, racist ideologies he spouts. Riley started making these videos after going viral from one video he made to fulfill a university assignment. In other words, he’s creating content he knows to be morally atrocious because he knows this content will get views. 

Riley didn’t have an especially troubled childhood. In fact, his upbringing was downright unremarkable and wholesome; rather, his ascension to notoriety comes from being what we all are, to some extent: an attention whore. What starts off mostly innocuous becomes increasingly intentional. Unfortunately, viewers who absorb and imbibe Petrol’s content, are completely sincere. They believe Petrol believes what he says. And, like astrology, at some point, a lack of scientific evidence doesn’t matter if enough people believe in it. What is simple and catchy often prevails over the inconvenience of nuance. Troll succeeds in scaring the shit out of you because it is not a prophecy, but a detailed simulacrum of our reality.

When a man openly disagreeing with Petrol gets shot, Riley has a harder time justifying his not quite satirical content that predominantly but not exclusively young straight white men are taking seriously. Petrol’s foil, Sierra Lox, is a university professor, who, after publicly disagreeing with Petrol, is persistently harassed. As is the way of the Internet, Lox also receives death threats. Like the other unsavoury parts of this novel, the pall of realism is haunting. 

Intermittently while reading Troll, I was tempted by a Luddite pastoralia—where the only things I would ever read would be tactile; there would be no scrolling, no faux or real sense of community with strangers I’d never met; I would never again read a comment that said “first” on a YouTube video; there would be no such thing as YouTube; things would be post-racial, as they have never, ever been. But the thing about having reality disarmingly reflected in fiction, is that it becomes evident that such a fantasy is futile. 

Troll is, like most despair-inducing works, deeply thought-provoking. What are we getting, or trying to get, from the Internet, that we don’t seem to be receiving anywhere else? Emotional validation? Mindless entertainment to help us forget our own miserable banalities? Sex from unattainably beautiful bodies? Untoward amounts of power via nefarious means? Suppose the Internet can provide us those things—there is much evidence to suggest it can, or, failing that, you can certainly find affirmation that tells you that everything you don’t have, you somehow deserve by virtue of being. What if, though, being denied what we want is, counterintuitively, good for us? There is no doubt that the creators of what was once called the information superhighway, like the man behind the Labradoodle, are experiencing uncomfortable emotions from the unseen ramifications of their idealistic inventions. 

Troll shows us what happens when anonymity is adopted on a mass scale, or similarly, when we assume a persona that becomes more real than our personalities—do we become our truer, more awful selves? How corruptible are any of us? There is no question that an individual can absolutely make a difference in the world; however, how often that seismic difference is for the good, is another matter. By no means is this novel a pleasure to read, as one might have inferred from the admirably monosyllabic title, for reading this novel is like signing a waiver to having your blood pressure raised; however, to be able to provoke such indignation, through realism, is an impressive feat that shows us, unflatteringly, our present and future.

*

Originally from East Vancouver, Jessica Poon is a writer, former line cook, and a pianist of dubious merit living in Toronto. She is currently an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Guelph. Editor’s note: Jessica Poon has recently reviewed books by Jen Sookfong Lee, J.M. Miro (Steven Price), Bri Beaudoin, Tetsuro Shigematsu, Katie Welch, Megan Gail Coles, and Ayesha Chaudhry.

*

The British Columbia Review

Interim Editors, 2023-24: Trevor Marc Hughes (non-fiction), Brett Josef Grubisic (fiction)
Publisher: Richard Mackie

Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an on-line book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, Maria Tippett, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.

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