Mette Jakobsen

A charming book that warms your heart and bursts with creativity. 12 year old Minou, lives on a small wintery island with her father, a priest, and an ex-magician with a dog named no-name. Her spunky mother was once counted as one of the inhabitants but she vanished one night and all the adults on the island are positive that she is dead. Minou however is not convinced - a fan of the philosophers that her father loves - she makes a list containing all the reasons that support her theory. When they find a frozen dead boy on the beach and bring him to the house to await the next boat shipment - both Minou and her father start to reflect on her mother and the circumstances that led to her disappearing from the small island. Filled with fun, quirky characters - this adorable story told through a child's eyes is not one that readers will forget.… (meer)

e-galley

This was a short, enjoyable read with a strong sense of place and isolation (the place is an island). It has an almost magical, fairytale quality to it: Minou the only child on the island, her mother vanished (presumed dead by Minou's father and the other two men on the island, Boxman and Priest, but believed alive by Minou), the grownups odd due to their experiences in the war and to their vocations: philosopher/fisherman, priest, and magician. There is little plot; Minou attempting to knit together a coherent story for herself, with her father's philosophy and her mother's imagination, is most of it.

Quotes:

With Descartes' words the island became solid again and I realised how easily logic gets lost in the night. (35 of 92)

But then I reminded myself that logic...had nothing to do with either kindness or love. (61 of 92)

"Sometimes," explained Boxman, "sadness has a sweet, enchanting edge. It pulls at your heart and you can't get enough." (63 of 92)

Uncle nodded, still looking pale, and then told me that he used to be scared of ghosts.
"Aren't you scared anymore?" I asked.
"I started looking straight at them," he said. "Then they stopped coming so close." (66 of 92)

I got the postcard from my pocket and read it again: "...it is the heart and not the words - not even in the most beautiful ones - but in the heart, in the skeleton bird pushing against your chest, wanting to fly, that we know for certain who and what we love. That is all we have, and all there is." (86 of 92)… (meer)