This book is less about story than about flow of words; it’s stream-of-consciousness writing that is more poetry than plot. There is relatively little dialogue. Mostly we’re in the protagonist’s mind, and given that he’s trying to interpret the world and the people around him from an autistic point of view, it can be challenging to follow. The writer delights in erudite words and an esoteric flow. Definition of erudite: characterized by great knowledge; learned or scholarly. Definition of esoteric: intended for, or likely to be understood by, only a small number of people with a specialized knowledge or interest. In other words, this novella will not be to everyone’s taste, nor is it meant to be. But those who delight in the erudite and esoteric (and didn’t need to read the definitions above) will love it. The bullying is authentic and all too familiar. The protagonist is called a “scrawny little twit” and “solemn guppy.” He’s trying hard to fit in, and has the advantage of two sympathetic teachers. Some of his thoughts about himself: “narcissistic arrogance,” “unconventional” and “interpretation of existential ideas.”

As I finish writing my last line, my hands begin to tremble for a few seconds and my right eye begins to twitch until the tears slowly start to stream down my face. I close my eyes and I’m reminded of an empty swing seat hanging on a tree, flailing in the wind on a cliff overlooking the sea and in the distance a single white lighthouse on the edge of another precipice. For it seems inexplicable how in our struggle to find the meaning in life, we are all underdogs; creatures who obey blind commands without assessing the criticality of our own thoughts and actions. No one can truly comprehend the meaning of our existence and why certain fortunate or unfortunate things happen to particular people; the moral repercussion of choice being so enigmatic in itself. No belligerent bravado can egregiously save us from this grotesque macabre of a life we define with commodious piety. So I spend yet another school day as a mute, an invisible newt, a corporeal vessel of ideas and images stemmed from eclectic transference, but nothing more. Nothing less either, for I wouldn’t want to get their attention by mistake. No more will I spend endless nights with gloomy cerulean tears streaming down my face. I will forgive and forget and become a blank slate absorbing social expectations like a sponge hiding behind a ready smile; a pedigree of gambit inchoate sobriquets without contest for reputational avowal.

This is the first in a coming series. Note that the author is a book reviewer for YAdudebooks.ca.

- P.W.