Which probably sounds like a criticism, but it's not. It's just a funny story.

The novel centers on a typical problem of affluence--the feeling that life is meaningless. The nameless narrator of the novel drops out of his MA program, house sits for his brother, and, ultimately, takes a trip to New York. He wonders if he is a good guy, if things "fit together," and if everything will be all right in the end.

While in his brother's flat, he faxes mail, befriends a child, makes lists (Things I Have, Things I Liked as a Child), plays with a hammer-and-peg toy, and contemplates the nature of time. He buys a Volvo for his brother, and he meets a woman, Lise. Then he leaves for New York, and contemplates the bigness of the city and the bigness of Americans. Then he leaves, vowing to tell Lise that life is a journey (and to buy a bicycle helmet).

That's all that happens.

It's a charming, pleasant read. I sped through this novel, loving most of it. I found the narrator endearing and the style well-suited to the content. But the book does not haunt you, the way a more daring or idiosyncratic book might. It it is not a novel that deals with The Human Condition. It is like the best of romantic comedy in that it is cute without being saccharine, but ultimately non-profound. I don't count this against it. There is a time for naive charm, and there is a time for profundity. I like romantic comedies. And I liked Naive. Super.