In Vivian, the “dramatised scenes” in which different characters all describe the same, usually distinctly weird occurrence, from their own point of view, often work brilliantly. Hesselholdt inhabits them in a way that makes you feel as though she spent time interviewing them... But her own voice is irritating and not only because her observations are frequently banal; having effectively cast a spell on the reader, she keeps breaking it and in a way that serves no real purpose. It’s a device that feels strangely old-fashioned: a postmodernism, flash but clunky, that seems to belong to another decade (the 1980s?) altogether... If [Hesselholdt] sometimes brings Maier vividly to life, this is all too brief and I can’t quite decide how it makes me feel. The mysteries that surround her are not (as if they ever could be) dispelled, which seems like a good thing. But this is no photograph album. It’s hard to imagine turning the pages of Vivian again. They have a fleeting quality: half-hearted and insubstantial, like images taken on a phone that you’re too lazy, or busy, to edit.