The adjective usually assigned to Boll is "ironic." But his novels about post-WWII Germany remain relevant today even if the irony is lost on today's readers. But the word "grim" also comes to mind, perhaps almost gothic. Of course the novels I have are English translations from the original German, it's difficult to imagine passages like this one from
Billiards at Half Past Nine have changed much:
"Why didn't you kill him? With a bullet though the head. Firecrackers don't kill, my boy. You should have come to me. Death's made of metal. Copper cartridges, lead, cast iron, shrapnel—they bring death, whining and wailing, raining on the roof at night and rattling on the pergola."
Boll probably peaked in either 1967 with his Georg Buchner Prize or in 1972 with his noble prize. In the US at least, his popularity has been on the wane for decades. I actually discovered his work in a discount bin at the exterior of a books shop.
