In an interview she said that if she happened on something new or interesting when she was working on this book she would put it in the novel. She proclaims and preaches respect for all living things, indeed for inanimate objects also, but not, it seems, for the craft of fiction. Given that Ozeki is an intelligent and talented writer, capable of presenting us with good scenes and genuine emotions, her self-indulgence is as irritating as it is disappointing. If, however, you think a spoon can speak of its sorrows, this may be your sort of novel. So we have writing around Benny’s distress and pain, and there is a general and tedious fuzziness to much of the novel. This is flapdoodle, the sort of thing that means nothing at first reading and nothing at any subsequent one. It’s the sound of a young person finding his voice, and in the world of books this is nothing short of a miracle.” Apparently when a boy or a girl makes such a discovery “all of us, from the most ancient tablets inscribed in clay to the cheapest dime-store paperbacks, take note and rejoice because without your voices we wouldn’t exist.” Well, no neither such tablets nor paperbacks can rejoice. But then there are passages, often very long passages, described as being from The Book addressing the boy: “That fly on the wall isn’t a coping tool, Benny. All well and good and quite nicely done, when what happens is presented to us through Benny’s experience and from his point of view.
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