I haven't read this book for about 5 years. In fact, when pushed to think about it, I'm not even entirely sure which bookshelf this book is currently residing on. It may even be in the overflow book park in the loft. But it was brought to mind this morning by something I was reading about Nordic literature in translation, and I suddenly remembered how much I had loved this book.
Here's the Amazon blurb:
"Troubled by an inability to find any meaning in his life, the 25-year-old narrator of this deceptively simple novel quits university and eventually arrives at his brother's New York apartment. In a bid to discover what life is all about, he writes lists. He becomes obsessed by time and whether it actually matters. He faxes his meteorologist friend. He endlessly bounces a ball against the wall. He befriends a small boy who lives next door. He yearns to get to the bottom of life and how best to live it. Funny, friendly, enigmatic and frequently poignant - superbly naive."
And it was deceptively simple. I remember it leaving me utterly sleepless the night that I stayed up into the wee small hours to devour it one sitting. I lay there thinking up my own lists, and wondering whatever happened to this girl I had known a couple of years before who had gone away to university to read meterology. I idly pondered figuring out a way to get in touch with her again so that I can ask my own meaningful questions. I never did work out how to find her. I couldn't remember her surname, other than the fact that it was Italian.
Chi, if you're out there, hello.
It must be a good sign that years after reading Naive. Super I still remember so much about it, and remember it so fondly. I think it might be time to find it in the piles at home, and give it another read.