It's hard to tell whether the 14-year-old, self-published phil-osopher Harriet Rose is a clumsy satire on the stupid publishing industry, or just very painfully written. It's bad, but its naivety makes it strangely beguiling. Harriet herself is hard to warm to, and as so often the real philosopher is her Nana, for whom The Answer is "a nice bacon sandwich".
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