So, this is how everyone sees me: as a child, a kid. But I don’t feel like a child, even though I just turned thirteen. Okay, I'm not an adult. But I’m not wise either. There’s no such word. It’s just a construct of the light-minded. It tells you, I’m not stupid; this one is wise. But, I tell you again, the adjective wise does not exist, except in its comparative form. Wiser.

And I, without a doubt, am wiser than all of you. A thousand times... Four, thirteen, twenty years old... Little Harris is growing up struggling to reconcile intelligence with childhood. At the same time, he tries to provide answers to tormenting questions: Why does Annoula constantly snub him? Why does the crippled author who happens to be his father claim to be so satisfied with his miserable life? Why does he stubbornly hide his first book from him? Why doesn’t his mother reveal to him the reason she left his father, leading him to disability after a fall into the abyss?

But wait... the abyss, the void! Maybe all the answers he seeks are there?

[Excerpt from the text on the back cover of the edition]