Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

Funny how certain books come to cross our paths, and the memories we inadvertently associate with them. Rosemary's Baby, for example, will always bring to mind me and my mom sitting waiting for my former car to be smogged at that place near the thrift store. This one crossed my path because my dad was watching the film adaptation (which I never will will because I've come to despise Tom Hanks--give me Tom Ripley any day), he and dogs under blanket on the couch, and so whenever I reread it, I will--quite aptly, given the book's themes--think of him.

It is the second novel I've read recently that uses 9/11 as a plot device, the other being My Year of Rest and Relaxation, and this reminded me of it. A very funny first person narrator living in New York City who is struggling to cope after the death of a parent. Of course, one is a thirty-something year old woman while the other a nine-year old boy. The blurb on the back cover compares it to Catcher in the Rye, but I disagree. I'm not usually one for gimmicky books--I did enjoy the Geronimo Stilton books in elementary school--but this one simply worked. Could it have succeeded without the quirky typography? Probably. Anyway, I loved it, in case my rating above didn't clue you in. My boots have often been heavy as of late, and reading this helped make them a little lighter.

Maybe it goes without saying that we write differently in letters than we do in email or text. Something about putting pen to paper makes a handwritten letter more intimate and less imposing than electronic media. We take off the tin-foil hat. Our mistakes are not made invisible by a backspace key, but crossed out with our own hand. We reveal ourselves. And letters to people we love are that much more intimate and revealing, even sentimental. We create something, a product, that you can hold in your hand, and then send it off, like a little piece of ourselves. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is Jonathan Safran Foer’s love letter to New York City.

I’ve seen some readers complain that its sentimentality is manipulative, and even though I can imagine reading the book that way, I can’t understand it. I think this book is one of the most beautiful explorations of love, grief, and humanity that I’ve ever experienced. It’s been years since I last read it, and I wanted to read it again before reviewing, but I’m not really at an emotional place where I could take it right now. What is love without death? And sometimes both are too harsh to look in the face. I have to make a nothing place for them. But I’ve had this review percolating in my brain, and I felt like I needed to share it, even though it’s only impressions.

Traditional wedding vows summarize pretty economically that classic feeling of being in love. I will love you in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, till death do us part. It’s that feeling of “I loved you before I knew you, and I will love you after we’re dust.” Foer does something similar here. He’s saying to the City, “I loved you as a child. I love you as an old man, as an old woman. I loved you when I only had a key to your secrets, but didn’t know what door it belonged to. I love you in the health of family and in the sickness of grief.” And somehow, for right or wrong, it is more meaningful to be reminded of love when we are at our most worthless and broken. This love letter takes place just after the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center, and it gives me the feeling of Foer sewing up the wounds of the city.

I lived in New York a couple of years before the September 11th attack, and I hated the city. When the attacks happened, I lived in one of the religiously fanatical far-away places where a lot of people felt, secretly or openly, that New York deserved to have a symbol of its decadence cut down. I lived in Oregon. People would say that “we” brought this upon ourselves, but, despite my aversion to New York City, that always offended me. New York is not “we” to anyone in Oregon. “We” is Rainie Falls and Mount Pisgah and Voodoo Doughnuts and Dutch Bros and Rice Hill. “We” is the Caveman statue and Powell’s and the stupid Enchanted Forest. The World Trade Center is just as foreign to “us” as Afghanistan or Nicaragua, Dresden or Hiroshima. Not only do I not believe that anyone, English speaking or not, brings that kind of devastation upon themselves, I also do not believe that it is “our” right to speak to the justice of that kind of event. I love where I live, and I feel that same kind of love and care in Foer talking about where he lives. I think it is beautiful. I think that it is not possible for a place that could be so beloved, no matter how much I dislike it myself, to have deserved bombing. I would say the same about Afghanistan, Nicaragua, Dresden, and Hiroshima.

On a lighter and more bitchy note, Nicole Krauss is married to Foer, and her book The History of Love is very, very similar to Extremely Loud. I think that if you’ve read one of those, you can’t really like the other, unfortunately. They are both, to some extent, about the injustices of growing up, but Krauss takes the tone of overcoming adversity, where I think Foer takes the tone of reconciliation and healing. Maybe they both have all of those elements. I’m one thumb up, one thumb down on History of Love, but words cannot tell you how much I love Extremely Loud. Some of the similarities are in the family phrasings, some are in the plots. You can see how they are very different writers who suffer from the disadvantage of living in the same house with another great writer. It’s stressful.

Extremely Loud is American folklore. It is regional, but can’t be held responsible for it. Not that regionalism is necessarily a turn-off, but we want to read about ourselves. Cultures that are familiar but foreign can be suspicious. At the same time, this story does bring me into the culture that was devastated by 9/11. I was not the target of the 9/11 attacks, just like Oskar, the protagonist of this book, was not. But also, we both were. We both are Americans, despite our foreignness. It is one of those muddles that political boundaries make out of culture. We are foreigners and family at the same time. It’s confusing and figurative and sentimental. In fact, all of this, everything in this book, is more figurative and sentimental than many readers care for, but what do you expect from a love letter?

When Thomas Pynchon invented what James Wood later named “hyper realism”, he did literature no favors. To read Pynchon is to witness genius at its most joyless. A mind capable of inventing myriad things and compelled to record them all. But at least Pynchon showed genius.

What Jonathan Safran Foer shows, however, is mere gimmickry. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close takes readers who thought they might have seen a glimmer of greatness in Everything is Illuminated and convinces them all they really saw were special effects.

It’s very difficult to read Foer’s second novel without reflecting on his first. Everything is Illuminated began in such an original way that a reader forgave the 150 or so dull pages of less-than-compelling writing that came along throughout the rest of the book. The reader forgave the puerile reflections on the Holocaust and the manufactured confession of homosexuality. Because the book began so originally.

But Foer is a one-trick pony. In Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, he’s once more co-opted a mass tragedy and made a fruit salad of it with various voices and narrative tricks. Oh sure, the book has an underlying tone of sadness – sadness, not seriousness – because, clever as he wants to be, Foer didn’t dare go wholehog with a tragedy still as fresh as 9/11. But that’s about the only restriction he put on his vanity.

To indulge himself with a hundred irritating digressions and quips, Foer invented a child narrator. This has become more and more common among the hyper-realism set in the last 10 years. Raised by guidance counselors who told them to never stop being childish, these novelists give us hundreds of pages of “exploring their inner child” – all under the guise of serious artistic endeavor.

But this is not serious art. This is an author who makes the easy choice every time. When he thinks he has something profound to say, he doesn’t hesitate to have his nine-year-old narrator couch things in college-level language. The rest of the time, when he feels like writing about whichever page of the encyclopedia he happened to turn to that morning, he has the little professor wander off wherever he wishes, always with a literary safety net that says, “I’m trying to depict the world through a child’s eyes!”

But we should ask ourselves why a novelist feels compelled to depict a mass tragedy through a child’s eyes. After all, this isn’t biography; Foer could have depicted the tragedy through anyone’s eyes at all. Better put, when he sat down to write about the savagery of Napoleon’s 1812 battle with Russia, why didn’t Leo Tolstoy depict the burning of Moscow through the eyes of a nine-year-old and his nutty and mute grandfather? Probably because a nine-year-old would have limited Tolstoy’s vocabulary too drastically; a nine-year-old doesn’t know enough to say anything original about war.

Tolstoy, in other words, was too concerned about making an original commentary to worry about being a “fresh new voice!” in the contemporary fiction scene. Tolstoy took a large subject and made it larger. Foer takes a large subject and makes it tiny.

But sometimes, I’ve learned, large things must be tiny. That’s how Foer’s narrator would say it. And he’d be wrong, of course. But then, that’s why we don’t publish books written by nine-year-olds.

تعريف الوجع والألم يتجسد فى فقد الأب ، خط الأمان والدفاع الأول عنك فى الحياة
شاهدت الفيلم مدفوعاً برغية فى إنهاء أعمال الممثل الأمريكى الأقرب لقلبى توم هانكس وكذلك بمراجعة ست الكل نيرة حسن عن الرواية والفيلم معاً
ليس أى فيلم أو مسلسل أشاهده أكتب عنه مراجعة إلا الأفلام التى تؤثر فيا تأثيراً كبيراً أو تستدعى لدى الرغبة فى البكاء أو التفكير
فهذا الفيلم للأسف أعادنى 25 سنة للوراء عندما كان صوت أبى فى أذنى مازال صاخب جداً وإحساسى به قريب للغاية

Extremely beautiful and incredibly lachrymose.

I finished this book this morning, determined to complete it before I did anything else today. I wanted it to just be over. I read the last 41 pages & then looked at the additional 15 unnumbered pages of pictures at the end, and now I sit here rather annoyed. I don't know how to communicate my disappointed sighs via text.


I really wanted to love this book. It was given to me by a friend who loved it - someone whose opinion I trust. I didn't get around to reading it for a long time though, and now that I have, it is my sad duty to report that I didn't like it at all. This should have been a moving story about grief, a little boy searching to find out why his father died, and learning to let him go. But it wasn't anything. There was no plot, no point, and I just didn't get it. There was exactly three sections of this book that made me feel something other than confusion and frustration. These three sections probably add up to about 10 pages, all together. And then one of them was a lie, so back to the confusion and frustration on that one.

This book was so damn gimmicky. I guess a lot of people would call that "style" or "technique" or something, but to me, it was just "LOOK AT ME! I'M DIFFERENT!" stage dressing that added nothing but irritation to the experience of reading this for me. I have a very low tolerance for gimmicks in books, and I feel that if an author is going to use anything at all other than words to tell his story, it had better fit and make sense, and add something. Nothing was added to the story or the experience for most of this stuff. Most of it was completely random - it literally could have been picked by the close your eyes and point method out of a table full of photos at an oddities shop. Or maybe this explains it:


Apparently, these are the pictures that are in Oskar's "Stuff That Happened To Me" book. Please, tell me, how did a picture of two turtles mating happen to him? A photo of a man on the ground during or after a tennis match? Two early Homo Sapiens walking together? When was he an astronaut? Or any of these: "a shark attacking a girl, someone walking on a tightrope between the Twin Towers, that actress getting a blowjob from her normal boyfriend, a soldier getting his head cut off in Iraq, the place on the wall where a famous stolen painting used to hang".

These things didn't happen to him, and I can't even see how they are even remotely related to him or anything he experienced - except perhaps in a symbolic or metaphorical way. But that doesn't fit. Oskar is extremely literal. He doesn't understand figures of speech, so I find it very difficult to think he'd have a scrapbook called "Stuff That Happened To Me" filled with symbolic or metaphorical pictures representing his feelings. If that's the case, why not just call it "Pictures Representing My Feelings"?

Oskar annoyed the hell out of me from the very beginning, and I just could not bring myself to like or identify with him. I tried. I mean, he's a little boy who thinks about things in a specific and ordered way, who needs stability, and his father dying pulled the rug out from under him. I tried. I just couldn't. I couldn't like this kid who can't see that his mother is actually grieving for her husband but notices things like the subway lines in New York only being above ground in "poor neighborhoods". I couldn't like this fucking selfish kid who tells his mother that he wishes he had a choice which parent died, who can't comprehend his mother or his grandmother having a life outside of him, who actually thinks things like "Why is she not waiting at the door? I'm the only thing that matters to her" about his grandmother.

Oh, but Oskar is such a charmer, you know, when he asks random women if he can kiss them, and tells them they are "incredibly beautiful". No, he means it. INCREDIBLY. BEAUTIFUL. All of them. He's the creepy fucking old man who stands too close on a train... just trapped in a 9 year old body.

And yet people just go with it. I know that Oskar's mom called around and told the people named Black that he'd be coming, but that wasn't until after he'd been around to a few, and still random people that he meets, all the people named Black that stalks tracks down on his investigation, they just go along with it, like it's not weird at all. Even if they were warned, I seriously doubt that every person would "play along". They act like they know that "heavy boots" means he's depressed rather than literally thinking that his shoes weigh a lot. They don't say "I don't kiss 9 year old boys" they say "It wouldn't be a good idea."

Speaking of which... Nobody EVER says what they mean in this book. Oskar says inappropriately honest things because he's literal and a child and probably has Asperger's, but when it comes to important things to him - his father - he shuts down. Incommunicado. Which is a huge theme in this book. Nobody talks to each other. Except of course for the perfect father-son relationship that Thomas/Oskar have.

Seriously, this was, I think for me, the most frustrating aspect of this book. It made me want to throw the damn thing across the room so many times. SO. MANY. TIMES. I hate, HATE, stupid people who suffer and cause other people to suffer needlessly because they are incapable of opening their fucking mouth, or getting a damn pen, or hiring a singing clown telegram, or a skywriter or communicating in SOME WAY with another person about their needs or fears or thoughts or... anything. Instead, these geniuses just close down, check out, and take ZERO responsibility for their own life, shirk EVERY decision and just refuse. Refuse what? Everything. Just fucking... GAH!


Half of this story is about Oskar's Grandma and Grandpa, and the shit's so convoluted and goddamn stupid that at the end I seriously could not believe that paper was wasted on this.

Ugh. You know, I was going to give you the Cliff's Notes version of the stupidity that is Oskar's Grandparents' relationship, but I actually can't bring myself to type it all out. So I'll just tell you that I literally hated reading about it, because they were both so stupid and I could not comprehend why they couldn't just TALK to each other.

Oh, but Grandpa doesn't talk. He writes everything down. One sentence per page. He singlehandedly kept the paper industry in business for 40+ years.

My overall impression of Grandma and Grandpa's lives: What a waste.

Anyway... Like I said. I wanted to like this book. I remember 9/11 and I remember how heartbreaking it was. I remember being glued to the TV and feeling almost physically sick. So I thought this book would be moving and beautiful and heartbreaking. But instead it was just frustrating. It was all over the place, gimmicky, and overall pointless, since Oskar's investigation had nothing at all to do with his father in the end.

What a waste.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close is a 2005 novel by Jonathan Safran Foer. The book's narrator is a nine-year-old boy named Oskar Schell. In the story, Oskar discovers a key in a vase that belonged to his father, a year after he is killed in the September 11 attacks. The discovery inspires Oskar to search all around New York for information about the key and closure following his father's death.

تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز یازدهم ماه ژانویه سال2019میلادی

عنوان: بی‌نهایت بلند و به‌ غایت نزدیک؛ نویسنده: جاناتان سافران‌ فوئر؛ مترجم: لیلا نصیری‌ها؛ ویراستار احسان نوروزی؛ تهران نشر چشمه، ‏سال1397؛ در415ص؛ شابک9786002298553؛ چاپ دوم سال1397؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان ایالات متحده آمریکا - سده21م‬

داستان «بی‌نهایت بلند و به‌ غایت نزدیک» درباره ی پسربچه ی نه ساله‌ ای به نام «اسکار شل» است، که پدرش را در حملات «یازدهم سپتامبر» از دست می‌دهد؛ رمان درباره ی جستجوهای این پسربچه، برای پیدا کردن قفلی است، که پدر کلید اسرارآمیزش را، برایش به جا گذاشته است؛ نویسنده برای نگارش رمان، از تکنیک‌های «پست مدرن» از جمله «راوی‌های گوناگون»، و «تایپوگرافی»، استفاده کرده است؛ پس از انتشار رمان، فیلمی سینمایی با برداشت از رمان ساخته شد، که کارگردان و بازیگرش به ترتیب، «استیون دالدری» و «تام هنکس» بودند

چند سال پس از درگذشت پدرش، در یورش «یازدهم سپتامبر»، «اسکار شِل» کلیدی را در گلدانی پیدا می‌کند؛ کلید به پدرش تعلق دارد، «اسکار» از این بابت مطمئن است؛ اما این کلید کدام یک از یکصدوشصت و دو میلیون قفل شهر نیویورک را باز می‌کند؟ این پرسش، «اسکارِ» کاشف، نامه‌ نگار، و کارآگاه آماتور را، بر آن وامی‌دارد، تا هر پنج محله‌ ی نیویورک را، زیر پا بگذارد، و وارد زندگی دوستان، اقوام و آدم‌هایی کاملاً غریبه شود؛ در این راه، غم‌ و غصه‌ های بسیاری، روی شانه‌ های «اسکار» سنگینی می‌کند، زیر ‏تأثیر این غم‌ و‌ غصه ‌ها، حتی جراحت‌هایی به خودش وارد می‌کند، و با هر کشفی، یک گام به دل ماجرای پُر رمز‌ و‌ رازی نزدیک می‌شود، که به پنجاه سال پیش، و تاریخچه‌ ی خانوادگی‌شان بازمی‌گردد؛ اما آیا این سفر او را از پدر درگذشته‌ اش دورتر، یا او را به پدرش نزدیک‌تر می‌کند؟

نقل نمونه متن: (پس صندلی چرخ‌دار را آوردم دم پله‌ ها، و با هم داد زدند که یک جورهایی عجیب بود، چون صداهاشان می‌آمد بالا و می‌رفت پایین، اما صورت همدیگر را نمی‌توانستند ببینند؛ با هم زدند زیر خنده و صدای خنده‌ شان کل راه‌ پله را پر کرد؛ بعد آقای «بلک» داد زد، «اسکار»! و من داد زدم، این که اسم من است، چرا داد می‌زنی؛ و او داد زد، بیا پایین! وقتی برگشتم لابی، آقای «بلک» توضیح داد شخصی که دنبالش بودیم پیشخدمت «ویندوز آن د ورلد» بوده؛ یعنی که چه؟ «فلیز»، زنی که باهاش حرف زده بودم، خودش شخصا او را نمی‌شناخت؛ وقتی اثاث‌ کشی کرده بود این‌جا، در موردش شنیده بود؛ - واقعا؟ - از خودم که در نیاوردم؛ رفتیم توی خیابان و شروع کردیم به راه رفتن؛ ماشینی گذشت که صدای آهنگش واقعا بلند بود، و قلبم را به لرزه درآورد؛ بالا را نگاه کردم، و بند رخت‌هایی را دیدم، که پنجره‌ های زیادی را با لباس‌هایی که روی‌شان آویزان بود، به‌هم وصل کرده بودند؛ از آقای «بلک» پرسیدم «وقتی آدم‌ها می‌گویند بند رخت، منظورشان این است»؛ - گفت «منظورشان همین است» - گفتم: «من هم همین فکر را می‌کردم»؛ - باز هم کمی پیاده رفتیم؛ بچه‌ ها توی خیابان‌ها داشتند سنگ‌ها را با پا پرت می‌کردند، و خوشحال می‌خندیدند؛ آقای «بلک» یکی از سنگ‌ها را برداشت، و توی جیبش گذاشت؛ به تابلوِ خیابان نگاه کرد، و بعد به ساعتش؛ چندتایی پیرمرد جلوِ مغازه‌ ای روی صندلی نشسته بودند؛ سیگار می‌کشیدند، و دنیا را مثل تلویزیون تماشا می‌کردند، - گفتم: «به نظرم خیلی عجیب است وقتی به‌اش فکر می‌کنم» - چی؟ - که «اگنس» آن‌جا کار می‌کرد؛ شاید بابام را می‌شناخت؛ یا نمی‌شناخت، اما شاید آن روز صبح «اگنس» سفارش قهوه‌ اش را گرفته بوده؛ بابا آن‌جا بود، توی رستوران؛ جلسه داشت؛ شاید «اگنس» قهوه بابا را دوباره پُر کرده بود یا همچین چیزی؛ - ممکن است؛ - شاید با هم مرده‌ اند؛ می‌دانستم که نمی‌داند چی در این مورد بگوید، چون معلوم است که با هم مرده بودند؛ سئوال واقعی این بود که چه‌ طوری با هم مرده بودند، مثلا هر کدام‌شان یک طرف رستوران بوده‌ اند، یا کنار هم یا یک‌جور دیگر؛ شاید با هم رفته بودند پشت بام؛ توی بعضی از عکس‌ها که می‌شد دید مردم با هم پریده‌ اند و دست هم را نگه داشته‌ اند؛ پس شاید این کار را کرده باشند؛ یا شاید تا موقعی که ساختمان پایین ریخته با هم حرف زده بودند؛ درباره چی با هم حرف زدند؟ دوتاشان زمین تا آسمان با هم فرق داشتند؛ شاید درباره من باهاش حرف زده بوده؛ فکر کردم به‌ اش چی گفته؛ نمی‌توانستم بگویم این‌که بابا دست یکی دیگر را نگه داشته بود، باعث می‌شد چه فکری درباره‌ اش بکنم.»؛ پایان نقل

تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 22/04/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 09/02/1401هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی

«بی‌نهایت بلند و به غایت نزدیک» بعضی از ویژگی‌های یک رمان پُست‌مدرن را دارد.
در واقع وقتی خواندنِ کتاب را آغاز کردم، در ابتدا یاد کتاب «جزء از کل» افتادم: زاویه دید اول شخص، تلاش نویسنده برای آفرینش یک رمان پست‌مدرن، و شلیک گاه و بیگاه جملات قصار توسط شخصیت‌های مختلف داستان. جملاتی مناسب برای اشتراک‌گذاری در شبکه‌های اجتماعی! در واقع برای من مایه‌ی شگفتی است که چطور جزء کل از این کتاب بیشتر معروف شده، چون امتیاز خارق‌العاده‌ای در جزء از کل نسبت به این کتاب نمی‌بینم.
با این حال با پیشرفت داستان متوجه شدم نویسنده‌ی کتاب، جناب «سفران فوئر» در نوشتن این کتاب تکنیک‌های متفاوتی نسبت به جزء از کل به کار برده، مثلا اگرچه زاویه دید اینجا هم اول شخص است، ولی راوی داستان تقریباً در هر فصل تغییر می‌کند و ما با سه-چهار راوی متفاوت در زمان‌های متفاوت مواجه‌ایم. جزء از کل نسبت به این کتاب تم دارک‌تری دارد، ولی این کتاب کمی بامزه‌تر است. اینجا اکثر شخصیت‌ها نوعی فیلسوف درون دارند، از بچه‌ی نه ساله(شخصیت اصلی کتاب، اسکار) گرفته تا پیرمرد صد و سه ساله، باید آماده باشید تا شما را با جملات فلسفی و عمیق غافلگیر کنند.
و در نهایت نویسنده در این کتاب کوشیده با ویژگی‌هایی مثل انواع مختلف تایپوگرافی، خط کشیدن بین کلمات و یا عکس‌های عجیب و غریب ولی مرتبط با داستان در لابلای متن کتاب، یک قدم به ساخت یک رمان پست مدرن نزدیک‌تر شود.
این که شما از چنین خصوصیاتی خوشتان بیاید یا نه، بستگی به سلیقه‌ی خودتان دارد.
با این حال به احتمال زیاد اگر از کتاب‌هایی با سبک جزء از کل خوشتان آمده، از این کتاب هم خوشتان خواهد آمد و اگر مثل من جزء از کل را «یک رمان متوسط با جملات قصار باحال» می‌دانید، احتمالاً در مورد این کتاب هم نظر مشابهی خواهید داشت.
برای من «جذاب بودن داستان» و «شخصیت‌پردازی خوب» از عوامل مهم علاقه‌ام به یک داستان بلند است که در این کتاب متأسفانه هردو مورد ضعیف‌تر از حد انتظار است. با این حال ممکن است شما از سبک مدرن رمان بیش از من خوشتان بیاید.
درباره‌ی داستان
اسکار شلِ نه ساله پدرش را در حادثه‌ی یازده سپتامبر از دست می‌دهد. پس از مرگ پدرش در اتاقِ او کلیدی پیدا می‌کند. با توجه به رابطه‌ی عاطفی و تا حدی عجیب و غریبِ پدر و پسر، اسکار در تمام داستان می‌کوشد برای این کلید، قفلی و داستانی پیدا کند! داستان عجیبی است که به نظر من پتانسیل پرداختی بهتر از آنچه در کتاب آمده را داشت.
داستان دو درون‌مایه‌ی اصلی دارد:
• مخالفت با جنگ: داستان به کمک پرش بین شخصیت‌های مختلف و در زمان‌های مختلف، چندین جنگ و حادثه‌ی تروریستی را مطرح می‌کند و به آسیبی که چنین فجایعی برای جامعه و افراد به دنبال دارد اشاره می‌کند.
• از دست دادن اعضای خانواده: روابط عاطفی و به خصوص خانوادگی در کتاب نقش پررنگی دارند. شخصیت‌ها در نگاه اول عاشق می‌شوند و تشکیل خانواده می‌دهند! در عین حال بخشی از بار عاطفی کتاب بر دوش حس فقدانی است که بر اثر از دست دادن یکی از اعضای خانواده(بر اثر مرگ یا ترک کردن خانواده) بر دیگر اعضا تحمیل می‌شود.
درباره‌ی ترجمه
ترجمه‌ی کتاب نمره‌ی متوسط می‌گیرد. از اندک اشتباهات ترجمه که بگذریم، بزرگترین اشکال ترجمه به نظر من کمبود پاورقی است. بعضی از کلمات و جملاتِ کتاب نیاز به توضیح بیشتر در پاورقی دارند که متأسفانه مترجم محترم در این کار کوتاهی کرده است. همچنین جملات فرانسویِ کتاب بدون ترجمه در وسط متن آمده‌اند که جا داشت ترجمه‌ی فارسی آن‌ها هم به صورت پاورقی ذکر شود.