Their stories clamor for attention, expressing joy, rage, misery, and other grievances. Soon overcrowded with the effects of their grief, the Ohs lose the plot to their shared story and struggle to connect to one another.īenny attempts to ignore the voices of objects by leaving his mother and her hoard at home, only to discover the noise follows him onto the street. His mother Annabelle copes with her own trauma and pain by collecting various objects, including snowglobes, craft supplies, thrift teapots, and print archives necessary for her news-monitoring job. If those things could talk in a voice we understand, what sentiment might they hold? In Ruth Ozeki’s latest novel, The Book of Form and Emptiness, things begin to speak to thirteen-year-old Benny Oh following the unexpected death of his father. Think of a well-loved stuffed animal forgotten in a shopping cart, a lone glove sodden with snow, or perhaps cans littered in shrubs in the aftermath of a concert, a bar crawl, or a Tuesday evening. But objects left behind can be fascinating, too, partly because they hold untold stories.

What I left behind, among donated clothing and MDF furniture, became mere stuff, optioned for either its next owner or the landfill. That initial moving list contained matter both living and non-living which seemed necessary-though not all utilitarian-to my daily life, and the rest of the items in my new space followed as I discovered new needs. Of course, my self-imposed ultimatum failed to account for the unsentimental yet practical things that might make a comfortable home, such as a standing fan, two-seat kitchen table, or toilet brush. A close relative with a hoarding problem instilled in me a fear of clutter from a young age, and moving is the perfect time to reevaluate one’s possessions. During my recent out-of-state move from a sizable suburban home into my current studio, I resolved to condense my life into six storage totes, two cat carriers, a small car, and my own body.

The book of form and emptiness review