The Curious Way We Process Words

Kasey Cox

I intended to write about Mark Haddon’s “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” nearly a year ago. I had just convinced Kevin to read it, and I was surprised that he was not as taken with it as I was. I thought we should write a review in the style of Ebert & Roeper: we would both talk about the novel’s good points, and then Kevin could discuss his criticisms, while I interjected my defense. With the discussion set up this way, there would be much more space dedicated to the good stuff about the book, and therefore, I would win. (heh heh heh)

Although I’d like to claim as much credit as possible for my contributions to its success, Haddon’s unique, funny, touching first novel is the real winner here. “The Curious Incident” remains in the top 200 bestsellers at Amazon.com (#184 as of the writing of this review), 4 years after its original June 2003 release. That’s amazing holding power for a book, especially in the flash-in-the-pan, what’s-the-newest-fad-or-scandal environment of current American pop culture. Haddon’s book has garnered all kinds of awards, in adult and young adult categories, in both the U.K. and the U.S. In addition, the Today Show selected it for their short list of book club recommendations. And, yes, even though it’s my byline here, we’ll let Kevin get his word in edgewise: he frequently recommends this book, too.

Whether you end up loving the book or not, you’ll know from the first page how inimitably this story will be told. “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” opens with fifteen-year-old Christopher Boone stating that his neighbor’s dog, Wellington, is lying on the grass with a garden fork sticking out of his side. Like a miraculous, alchemical combination of Charlie Gordon in “Flowers for Algernon” and Holden Caulfield in “The Catcher in the Rye”, Christopher’s style of narrating the story reveals more about his story than just the words themselves. The “I” telling the story here is a British teenaged boy with Asperger’s Syndrome. Christopher has a high-functioning type of autism, which he himself clearly explains. Indeed, as narrator of the events in his neighborhood and his life, Christopher reports everything clearly and logically, but without any real emotional understanding.

Trying to solve the mystery of Wellington’s murder, Christopher accepts the encouragement of his teacher to write a book about his findings. It is a book whose chapters have prime numbers only and drawings of the way people’s faces look, since Christopher is incredibly gifted with mathematics, but cannot read or interpret people’s facial expressions. Christopher’s ability to detail the words people say and the facts he discovers, juxtaposed with his inability to process what these events mean to most of the people around him, creates the bittersweet tone that touches readers so much.

But it was only after Kevin and I discussed why I liked the book so much that I discovered another truth about the power of how we process words. Yes, when I read this book, I enjoyed it. I found it charming, original, clever. But, truth be told, after I finished it, I didn’t see why the friend who had recommended it to me had raved so much. Until the audio book showed up at the Green Free Library. Hearing the story told, with the British accent, and in a curiously flat, emotionless tone, I really got it. I felt as though I understood Christopher because I could hear him. Because I am blessed with the ability to process and interpret more than words, but also the nonverbal cues in another human’s voice, the irony and the sadness inherent in Christopher’s story sunk in. Funny, too, because I don’t usually listen to audio books. Amazing and ironic that the real impact of Christopher’s differences in processing information came to me when I switched from my normal mode of processing stories.