Extremely loud & incredibly close

This book is told primarily from the point of view of 8-year old Oskar Schell, whose father was killed in the world trade center towers on 9/11 and who, a year or so later, is still dealing with the loss and grief. He appears to be a very intelligent kid but probably somewhere on the autism spectrum (based both on his behaviour in the book, and the fact his therapist Dr. Fein suggests to his mother that he might be put in some kind of special care facility). Oskar finds a key in his father's closet and makes it his mission to find the lock it fits; the only clue he has is the name "Black" written on the envelope it was in, so he begins an epic journey to speak to every person named Black in New York city.

Interspersed with Oskar's key mission are back stories from his grandparents: his grandmother, who lives across the street now and helps care for Oskar, and his grandfather, who vanished before Oskar's father was born but whose story is told through a series of unsent letters he wrote to his son. Oskar's grandparents survived the fire bombing of Dresden and their stories unwind in parallel to Oskar's search for the lock that his key will open - which he's become convinced will somehow bring him closer to his father.

There were some moments of charm in the book and I was curious to find out what the key would eventually unlock, but there were also a lot of very annoying characters and unbelievable circumstances, not to mention a generous helping of trite melancholy. It seemed to me as if the author was trying to imitate something like "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time", where Precocious Autistic Spectrum Child Observes World, Solves Mysteries, only not as well. The plot and prose often felt rather forced, and Oskar's awkwardness - while probably supposed to illustrate his childish innocence and/or autism - was often simply silly or offputting. The complete inability of anyone in his family to communicate anything to each other was stretched past the point of believably. And the idea that his mother would seriously allow an 8 year old child to wander around New York city talking to strangers for months or sneaking out past midnight for no reason known to her is just preposterous.

Overall the book just asked me to stretch my credulity way further than I can do and still enjoy the story.

Man, did this book make me wear heavy boots. I'm probably going to be wearing them for a few days after finishing this.

Oskar lost his father in the 9/11 attacks. Much like [b:The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time|1618|The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time|Mark Haddon|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1327882682s/1618.jpg|4259809], he is a young boy trying to solve a mystery that really holds deeper meaning to understanding his entire life. But, this isn’t just Oskar’s journey through grief; this is also about Oskar’s grandmother, grandfather, and his mother, too.

Is it uniquely written and a little gimmicky? Yes, but it worked for the narrative. Unique like Oskar, like his grandfather, like his grandmother, the different parts of the book fit together to tell the story of a family who have experienced and endured grief, joy, and all of the other parts of life that make it special.

I hesitate to say more, and urge you to experience this story for yourself.

I read this because I assigned Nicole Krauss' History of Love as a summer reading assignment, and this book was mentioned in pretty much every review of that book. The two books do share some similarities (both are about a child investigating a mystery of their dead father and both mix traditional narrative storytelling with piecemeal excerpts of letters/journals/etc.) but I think Foer's effort was not nearly as good as his wife's. The parts of the books told from Oskar's point of view are remarkable. Foer perfectly captures the voice of an intelligent, curious, and shellshocked little boy. The other parts of the book, consisting of letters written by Oskar's grandparents and the occasional scrapbook photograph aren't nearly as engaging. The way Foer uses simple, declarative sentences to try to capture the voice of Oskar's immigrant grandmother quickly grows tiresome. And I'm honestly not sure what to think about the use of 9/11 in the book. At times, it seems entirely essential to both the plot and to establishing aspects of Oskar's character. At other times, especially when Foer is inserting photographs of the falling man, the use of 9/11 seems designed to shoehorn in an extra layer of sadness to the story.

I read this book because the movie is coming soon and it was a good excuse to read it. I’ve been interested in reading a Jonathan Safran Foer for a while (yet another step in becoming a book snob) and now I had no excuse. While the movie looks really good; I’ve struggled how it would work now that I’ve read the book. There is a lot of key elements of this book that would not translate well in a movie, for example Oskar’s inner thoughts, the letters he writes to random people that interest him and then there is the renter (Oskar’s grandfather) who doesn’t speak at all and writes everything on paper for others to read.

This book was such a pleasure to read, while it’s not a particular exciting plot; the characters and the writing were just so great that it was nothing but a joy to read. I’ve heard people call Jonathan Safran Foer’s writing manipulative and even overly sweet and I can see what they are saying, in this book everyone seemed to be nice and have very little flaws but for me I think this is just simply because this particular story was told by a 9 year old boy. There are a lot of elements of trauma and mourning as the family struggle to come to terms with the events of 9/11 and losing someone so close to them. Even Oskar himself struggles between self-destruction and self-preservation throughout this book but overall the book comes across as very lights and sweet.

I really did enjoy this book, while I might have some issues with the book and the upcoming moving adaptation I highly recommend this book. Not often do I get such pleasure in the writing style of a book but Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close was one of those books I liked simply because it was beautifully written.

This book is beautiful, engaging, complex, thoughtful, and moving. [a:Foer|2617|Jonathan Safran Foer|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1274633302p2/2617.jpg] doesn't write books, he crafts them, carefully, attentively, and skillfully. His talent for weaving disparate storylines together into a complex, layered narrative that is somehow still intimately accessible and illuminating was demonstrated forcefully in [b:Everything Is Illuminated|256566|Everything Is Illuminated|Jonathan Safran Foer|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1298482115s/256566.jpg|886727], and is on full display in his second novel. Except that it's not so much on display as it is underneath, providing a foundation and background that rarely calls attention to itself but enriches the story in a way that has made Foer the well-deserved success that he is.



His first book played lightly with the medium of the novel, fiddling with things like type and interwoven chapters, but this book takes his art to a whole new level. A quick perusal will reveal full-color prints, seemingly random sequences of photos, blank pages, series of pages with a handful of words apiece, pages with pre-circled words, and even pages so dense with type as to be literally unreadable. I can imagine Foer telling his publisher what he wanted to do with this book, getting some very skeptical looks, but pointing at his first novel and getting his way. And I am very glad that he did. Foer has taken his success and used it to flex his creative vision in ways that wouldn't have otherwise been possible, and the result is a sometimes very strange-looking book. At a cursory flip, all of this may appear to be gimmicky, and in the hands of another author, very well could be. But the strength in Foer's art is that as unusual as it is, it never calls attention to itself. Each oddity - the blank pages, the colored prints - is wholly unjarring, and in fact expresses the story in a way that a pure sequences of words never could. It is one thing to play with the form of the novel and push boundaries for the sake of doing something different, and another thing to truly use those deviations to better tell your story and engage your reader. Foer's skill in doing the latter is what sets Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close from [b:Cloud Atlas|49628|Cloud Atlas|David Mitchell|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1170360941s/49628.jpg|1871423], the last book I read, which also plays with its form - while Mitchell's form was interesting, it often called attention to itself, and seldom did much to further the stories that it told. Foer's form, on the other hand, is often almost invisible, in that you forget that blank pages in books are not how books are supposed to be written, because they convey the story so perfectly. All of Foer's devices feel very necessary, and are used to their full potential, and the story is much richer and better for it.



So what story does all of this form work so well to convey? An intimate, complex portrait of nine-year-old Oskar Schell, who lost his father in 9/11, and the story of his deeply personal journey through the labyrinth of emotions and questions that his father's sudden and jarring departure left behind, on top of the complexities of being a nine-year-old with a mind that never stops inventing. We read, feel, and experience the stories of him and of course the deeply connected lives of his mother, his grandparents, and the other people whose lives he affects and is affected by. Oskar, although he is young, is a very intelligent, thoughtful, and introspective child, and he sets out on a quixotic journey that no one, including himself, really understands, but that he simply must embark upon. As his story - and the stories of those around him unfold - beautifully, slowly, carefully - Foer explores what it means to be human, to love, to lose, to be in relationship with other people.



There is far more than 355 pages worth of book packed in between these covers. It is somehow wholly accessible, readable, and enjoyable, while being thick with connections, contemplation, questions, and quiet introspection. The complexity undergirds the whole narrative, and is always present, but somehow never loudly calls attention to itself. And I swear I didn't plan this, but I just looked over at the cover again...the complexity is, you might say, extremely loud and incredibly close.



This book is a brilliant use of the form of the novel, in ways that few authors attempt and fewer succeed in. But the beauty of it is that these novelties are not why you should read the book - you should read this book because it is a deeply relevant, thoughtful, thought-provoking and engaging story, told exceedingly well. The devices throughout are used carefully and effectively, only when they are needed, and only when they tell the story in a way that words alone cannot. Oskar Schell's story is certainly one that deserves to be so well-told, and one that deserves to be read, thought about, experienced, and treasured.

This book is beautiful, engaging, complex, thoughtful, and moving. [a:Foer|2617|Jonathan Safran Foer|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1274633302p2/2617.jpg] doesn't write books, he crafts them, carefully, attentively, and skillfully. His talent for weaving disparate storylines together into a complex, layered narrative that is somehow still intimately accessible and illuminating was demonstrated forcefully in [b:Everything Is Illuminated|256566|Everything Is Illuminated|Jonathan Safran Foer|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1298482115s/256566.jpg|886727], and is on full display in his second novel. Except that it's not so much on display as it is underneath, providing a foundation and background that rarely calls attention to itself but enriches the story in a way that has made Foer the well-deserved success that he is.



His first book played lightly with the medium of the novel, fiddling with things like type and interwoven chapters, but this book takes his art to a whole new level. A quick perusal will reveal full-color prints, seemingly random sequences of photos, blank pages, series of pages with a handful of words apiece, pages with pre-circled words, and even pages so dense with type as to be literally unreadable. I can imagine Foer telling his publisher what he wanted to do with this book, getting some very skeptical looks, but pointing at his first novel and getting his way. And I am very glad that he did. Foer has taken his success and used it to flex his creative vision in ways that wouldn't have otherwise been possible, and the result is a sometimes very strange-looking book. At a cursory flip, all of this may appear to be gimmicky, and in the hands of another author, very well could be. But the strength in Foer's art is that as unusual as it is, it never calls attention to itself. Each oddity - the blank pages, the colored prints - is wholly unjarring, and in fact expresses the story in a way that a pure sequences of words never could. It is one thing to play with the form of the novel and push boundaries for the sake of doing something different, and another thing to truly use those deviations to better tell your story and engage your reader. Foer's skill in doing the latter is what sets Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close from [b:Cloud Atlas|49628|Cloud Atlas|David Mitchell|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1170360941s/49628.jpg|1871423], the last book I read, which also plays with its form - while Mitchell's form was interesting, it often called attention to itself, and seldom did much to further the stories that it told. Foer's form, on the other hand, is often almost invisible, in that you forget that blank pages in books are not how books are supposed to be written, because they convey the story so perfectly. All of Foer's devices feel very necessary, and are used to their full potential, and the story is much richer and better for it.



So what story does all of this form work so well to convey? An intimate, complex portrait of nine-year-old Oskar Schell, who lost his father in 9/11, and the story of his deeply personal journey through the labyrinth of emotions and questions that his father's sudden and jarring departure left behind, on top of the complexities of being a nine-year-old with a mind that never stops inventing. We read, feel, and experience the stories of him and of course the deeply connected lives of his mother, his grandparents, and the other people whose lives he affects and is affected by. Oskar, although he is young, is a very intelligent, thoughtful, and introspective child, and he sets out on a quixotic journey that no one, including himself, really understands, but that he simply must embark upon. As his story - and the stories of those around him unfold - beautifully, slowly, carefully - Foer explores what it means to be human, to love, to lose, to be in relationship with other people.



There is far more than 355 pages worth of book packed in between these covers. It is somehow wholly accessible, readable, and enjoyable, while being thick with connections, contemplation, questions, and quiet introspection. The complexity undergirds the whole narrative, and is always present, but somehow never loudly calls attention to itself. And I swear I didn't plan this, but I just looked over at the cover again...the complexity is, you might say, extremely loud and incredibly close.



This book is a brilliant use of the form of the novel, in ways that few authors attempt and fewer succeed in. But the beauty of it is that these novelties are not why you should read the book - you should read this book because it is a deeply relevant, thoughtful, thought-provoking and engaging story, told exceedingly well. The devices throughout are used carefully and effectively, only when they are needed, and only when they tell the story in a way that words alone cannot. Oskar Schell's story is certainly one that deserves to be so well-told, and one that deserves to be read, thought about, experienced, and treasured.

This book is beautiful, engaging, complex, thoughtful, and moving. [a:Foer|2617|Jonathan Safran Foer|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1274633302p2/2617.jpg] doesn't write books, he crafts them, carefully, attentively, and skillfully. His talent for weaving disparate storylines together into a complex, layered narrative that is somehow still intimately accessible and illuminating was demonstrated forcefully in [b:Everything Is Illuminated|256566|Everything Is Illuminated|Jonathan Safran Foer|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1298482115s/256566.jpg|886727], and is on full display in his second novel. Except that it's not so much on display as it is underneath, providing a foundation and background that rarely calls attention to itself but enriches the story in a way that has made Foer the well-deserved success that he is.



His first book played lightly with the medium of the novel, fiddling with things like type and interwoven chapters, but this book takes his art to a whole new level. A quick perusal will reveal full-color prints, seemingly random sequences of photos, blank pages, series of pages with a handful of words apiece, pages with pre-circled words, and even pages so dense with type as to be literally unreadable. I can imagine Foer telling his publisher what he wanted to do with this book, getting some very skeptical looks, but pointing at his first novel and getting his way. And I am very glad that he did. Foer has taken his success and used it to flex his creative vision in ways that wouldn't have otherwise been possible, and the result is a sometimes very strange-looking book. At a cursory flip, all of this may appear to be gimmicky, and in the hands of another author, very well could be. But the strength in Foer's art is that as unusual as it is, it never calls attention to itself. Each oddity - the blank pages, the colored prints - is wholly unjarring, and in fact expresses the story in a way that a pure sequences of words never could. It is one thing to play with the form of the novel and push boundaries for the sake of doing something different, and another thing to truly use those deviations to better tell your story and engage your reader. Foer's skill in doing the latter is what sets Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close from [b:Cloud Atlas|49628|Cloud Atlas|David Mitchell|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1170360941s/49628.jpg|1871423], the last book I read, which also plays with its form - while Mitchell's form was interesting, it often called attention to itself, and seldom did much to further the stories that it told. Foer's form, on the other hand, is often almost invisible, in that you forget that blank pages in books are not how books are supposed to be written, because they convey the story so perfectly. All of Foer's devices feel very necessary, and are used to their full potential, and the story is much richer and better for it.



So what story does all of this form work so well to convey? An intimate, complex portrait of nine-year-old Oskar Schell, who lost his father in 9/11, and the story of his deeply personal journey through the labyrinth of emotions and questions that his father's sudden and jarring departure left behind, on top of the complexities of being a nine-year-old with a mind that never stops inventing. We read, feel, and experience the stories of him and of course the deeply connected lives of his mother, his grandparents, and the other people whose lives he affects and is affected by. Oskar, although he is young, is a very intelligent, thoughtful, and introspective child, and he sets out on a quixotic journey that no one, including himself, really understands, but that he simply must embark upon. As his story - and the stories of those around him unfold - beautifully, slowly, carefully - Foer explores what it means to be human, to love, to lose, to be in relationship with other people.



There is far more than 355 pages worth of book packed in between these covers. It is somehow wholly accessible, readable, and enjoyable, while being thick with connections, contemplation, questions, and quiet introspection. The complexity undergirds the whole narrative, and is always present, but somehow never loudly calls attention to itself. And I swear I didn't plan this, but I just looked over at the cover again...the complexity is, you might say, extremely loud and incredibly close.



This book is a brilliant use of the form of the novel, in ways that few authors attempt and fewer succeed in. But the beauty of it is that these novelties are not why you should read the book - you should read this book because it is a deeply relevant, thoughtful, thought-provoking and engaging story, told exceedingly well. The devices throughout are used carefully and effectively, only when they are needed, and only when they tell the story in a way that words alone cannot. Oskar Schell's story is certainly one that deserves to be so well-told, and one that deserves to be read, thought about, experienced, and treasured.