It is a relatively well-known fact that the author of the bestselling and most widely known Nordic noir crime series of all time never got to witness his own success. Swedish novelist Stieg Larsson died of a sudden heart attack 20 years ago this week, aged only 50, before the publication of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and the Millennium trilogy that followed.
What is less well known is that on the day of his death (9 November 2004), Larsson was due to give a lecture on the Nazis’ November pogrom at the headquarters of the Workers’ Educational Association in Stockholm. Kristallnacht, “the night of broken glass”, was an important date in Larsson’s calendar, which he commemorated every year. To him, it epitomised the abyss of far-right extremism he spent his life fighting.
Larsson’s life as an antifascist activist has been increasingly overlooked in the wake of his books’ phenomenal global success. One of Sweden’s most lucrative literary exports, the Millennium series has sold more than 100m copies across its various titles, according to publisher Norstedts. The novels have since been adapted into a number of Swedish TV films, a Hollywood blockbuster starring Daniel Craig, and expanded into two further trilogies by two other authors.
“And yet, the trilogy is only one episode in Stieg’s journey through the world, and it certainly isn’t his life’s work”, his life partner, Eva Gabrielsson, wrote back in 2011 in her memoir. Gabrielsson refers to the “Stieg of the ‘Millennium industry’” as being created after his death. The Larsson she knew was an unwavering antifascist – a deeply rooted conviction that shines through passage after passage of his page-turning crime thrillers.
Two decades on, the novels read like a gloomy premonition of Sweden’s political landscape to come, with the far-right Sweden Democrats a de facto part of the governing coalition since 2022. Larsson exposed the undemocratic underbelly of a country usually associated with Scandinavian exceptionalism rather than murderous Nazis. It was a side of Swedish society he knew all too well as a journalist.
In The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, a suspenseful whodunnit set on a fictional Swedish island inhabited by a wealthy industrialist family, Nazi pasts are never far beneath the surface of the plot. The Vanger brothers – Richard, Harald and Greger – were all members of the extreme right organisation New Sweden, with Harald becoming a “key contributor to the hibernating Swedish fascist movement”. The investigative journalist Mikael Blomkvist later finds photos of Greger with Sven Olov Lindholm, a Swedish Nazi leader in the 1940s. And the fascist ideology of Richard – grandfather of the missing Harriet and her vicious brother Martin – led him to the Finnish trenches in the second world war.
In the sequel, The Girl Who Played With Fire, we find the biker gang Svavelsjö MC (whose logo features a Celtic cross, a symbol common among white supremacy groups) at the centre of a sex trafficking ring. The gang is well connected with the organised extreme right: its number two, Sonny Nieminen, has had dealings with neo-Nazi groups such as the Aryan Brotherhood and the Nordic Resistance Movement while in prison. Lisbeth Salander’s nemesis and, as it turns out, brother – a giant brute who feels no pain called Ronald Niedermann – was part of a skinhead gang in the 1980s in Hamburg, we are told; it’s a nod to a nascent far-right subculture in Germany responsible for arson attacks and murders.
And in Larsson’s final novel, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest, Blomkvist and Salander expose a shadowy clique within Swedish intelligence called “the Section”, comprised of members of the extreme right Democratic Alliance. “Within the Section this was no obstacle,” we learn. “The Section had in fact been instrumental in the very formation of the group.”
While the Millennium trilogy touches on many themes, especially violence against women (the original Swedish title Larsson insisted on for the first novel translates as “Men who hate women”), Larsson condemned the Swedish far right’s influence at all levels of society.
These convictions were rooted in his biography. His grandfather, with whom he grew up with in the icy north of Sweden, was an anti-Nazi communist imprisoned in an internment camp during the second world war. The grandfather would recount the horrors of the November pogrom, leaving a lasting impression on the young Larsson, himself a committed activist, first in the anti-Vietnam war movement, then in Maoist and Trotskyist circles. But it was Larsson’s commitment against the far right that would shape his politics for the bulk of his life.
In 1979, Larsson joined the Swedish news agency Tidningarnas Telegrambyrå, where he spent the next 20 years of his modest career as a low-level journalist. But as rightwing extremists began robbing banks, stealing weapons and murdering people in Sweden in the mid-1980s, Larsson became the agency’s go-to expert.
From 1983, he began writing for the British antifascist magazine Searchlight as a Stockholm correspondent. In 1991 he co-authored a Swedish-language book on rightwing extremism. And over the years he penned numerous reports and articles on contemporary antisemitism and the far right for organisations and institutes in Israel, Belgium and France.
A pivotal moment came in 1995. Larsson co-founded the Expo Foundation, which publishes a quarterly magazine on racism, antisemitism and the far right to this day. By 1999, it had become his day job. It was a calling that came at great personal cost, landing him on neo-Nazi hitlists. He received bullets by post. Colleagues were targeted through shootings or car bombs. According to Gabrielsson, it was for security reasons that they did not marry, leaving her without inheritance rights under Swedish law.
“Stieg was a nerd at heart, but there was a certain machismo to covering the far right in the 90s,” says Daniel Poohl, head of the Expo Foundation since 2005. “It was men researching dangerous other men and sometimes that meant having a baseball bat to protect yourself. Because that’s what you do when you feel that you’re on your own.”
Poohl is sitting in the first floor office of Expo in a nondescript block in a residential neighbourhood in Stockholm. Framed covers of the compact, stylish magazine, which today has 7,000 subscribers, adorn the wall behind him. In the next room, the 14 staff members are busy planning the coming issue, page drafts of which are plastered on the wall.
It’s hard not to think of Larsson’s fictional investigative publication Millennium, with which there are plenty of parallels in the novels. “A lot of people have said to me that Millennium is basically Expo,” says Poohl. “But it’s not. Millennium was the ultimate dream magazine. Stieg was a bad businessman, so it would never work in real life.”
The success of the novels, which Larsson wrote in his spare time, has partly helped the foundation, however. A representative of Larsson’s estate said that the holding company that controls it has donated a total of over 40 million Swedish kronor (£2.9 million) over the years, which “have clearly been crucial for Expo’s activities.” .
Poohl from Expo confirmed that the foundation received one off payments, as well as an additional yearly support from the Larssons for a period and a cut of the fourth novel in the series, The Girl in the Spider’s Web, published in 2015 and authored by David Lagercrantz.
“People sometimes think we received a lot of money through the books, but it’s less than they think,” he says. “We’re thankful for the financial support that we have received during the years. But the royalty agreement has since ended.” Poohl adds: “The sad part is that Stieg didn’t get to use his fame to further his political work.” Joakim Larsson, his brother, declined an interview request due to health reasons. Gabrielsson, now 70, didn’t respond to multiple interview requests.
With the electoral success of the far-right Sweden Democrats, a party rooted in Swedish nazism, Larsson’s political nightmare has in many ways come true. “He tried to show that they weren’t simply a gang of madmen plotting to infiltrate Swedish society … but a real political movement that had to be combated through political means,” wrote Gabrielsson back in 2011. The “Millennium millions”, as a Swedish documentary has called the fortune made through the trilogy, would have undeniably been a big boost to his other life’s work.
