A few weeks ago, I had a compulsion to go to a used book store.  I had never been to that location before, and I only had an hour on my lunch break, so I set off with trepidation.

Even though it was only down the road, I looked up directions so as to make the turn.  It was still a close thing, as I pulled up to the warehouse.  The building stood stark, beige, and well back from the street.  I crept through the little-used parking lot, and made my way inside.

The smell of used books was a comfort, but the scale of the space was a shock.  A converted warehouse, the ceilings towered over the mismatched shelves of books.  A tentative voice called from the gloom, “Can I help you find anything?”

I reassured her that I was just browsing, but I did not see the attendant until later.  Instead, I wandered aimlessly through the stacks in search of something.  For finding a book is not like shopping, but adoption.  Each book hides a tiny portal within it, promising wonders.

This time I had no author in mind, no title.  I did not bother searching the internet for a goal, but let my eyes and nose guide my feet.  When, at last, I found myself in the ‘Science Fiction and Fantasy’ section, I was slightly disappointed that I had not strayed further from my norm.

However, the book that caught my eye on the bottom shelf did not look scientific nor fantastical.  It looked dreamy and serious, playful and unkempt.  The edges were deckled, the boy on the cover oddly drawn, and the title promised failure.  I picked it up.  I smelled it.  I took it to the dusty counter.

The proprietor looked expectant.  “Are you ready to check out?”

I handed her the book with a puzzled expression.  “I do not know how much it is, but I would like this book.”  She released it to me for six dollars, the gummy tag pulled off absentmindedly during the following hours of reading.  Once it had been pointed out to me, I could not stop seeing it.

The initial impression was well founded by the story within.  I applaud that cover design, the title, but the author most of all.  The experience of the boy detective was at turns tragic, comic, banal and extraordinary.  Everything I could ask for from a book.

In particular, the author, Joe Meno’s portrayal of anxiety was excellent.  The immense pain of being lauded when young and pitied when adult is felt strongly within the text.  If you ever wondered what would happen to Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys once the fun and games become jobs and bills, this is the book for you.

For though the titular boy detective is possibly an amalgamation of the child detective genre, more exact parallels do appear within the story.

The story is well rounded, with threads getting picked back up with comforting consistency.  Characters are recounted, grown, and tied off.  I could not ask for better balance.

The boy detective is the only perspective character, with very little insight given into his own personal thoughts.  Yet, he is shown to be both capable of great complacency while demonstrating enormous skill.  That is the hypocrisy I’ve known of most of the ultra-talented.

He sheds the complacency by steps throughout the narrative, leading him to learning to engage with the world on its terms rather than his own.  He slowly grows to be vulnerable, accepting his own limitations and to love others despite their struggles.  It’s a beautiful story.

The books which it may be like are not ones that I have read.  I do not read a huge amount of literary fiction.  Perhaps Piranesi by Susanna Clarke has a similar tone, but where hers has you literally swept to sea, The Boy Detective Fails keeps both feet firmly on Earth.

May we all learn to grow through and past our shortcomings, and perhaps by reading about the success of a boy detective, it will bring me closer to my own happy ending.