I read Haddon’s narrative in one sitting, lying flat on my belly by some hotel pool, completely engrossed in the thoughts of his complex, idiosyncratic, frustrating, charming and hilarious protagonist. The book was gifted to me by one of my best friends, one with whom I shared a deep love and appreciation for works of art – be they visual, cinematic or literary – that managed to detach innocence from ignorance and assert it as a possibility in a world seemingly determined to make its preservation as an ethos and disposition unfeasible, at least for us adults. It’s been years since I read Mark Haddon’s novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, but I can still recall the effect it had on me, back when I was an undergraduate in the United Arab Emirates constantly dreaming of sensibilities that a life in Dubai denied me.
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