I recently decided (by a process of reasoning that's a rather long story) that I'd make this 1968 YA novel --which I read only as a middle-aged adult, on the recommendation of one of my daughters-- the subject of my next retrospective review. It's not an easy book to review, however, not just because it's been about 17 years since I read it (I checked it out again from the library to skim over and refresh my memory on some points, which has vividly revived my memory of just how gut-punching it ultimately is), but also because it's hard to discuss without spoilers. However, I'll do my best with it.
At 149 pages, this is a short and quick read. Although it was marketed as teen fiction and has teen protagonists, and certainly can be characterized (like a great deal of fiction, especially YA fiction) as a coming-of-age story, it's the sort of novel that speaks just as well to adults. And although I'd place Zindel in the Realist tradition, it's also a novel that packs an enormous emotional wallop. If you're looking for a feel-good read, despite its moments of humor and lightheartedness, this isn't one. It has a very real tragic component --which isn't really a spoiler, since that's foreshadowed from very early on. Generally speaking, I'm not a fan of the tragic in literature. But I appreciate this novel as highly as I do because it uses tragedy as an instrument of moral and psychological growth for characters that you care about. The author uses the "truth of art" to convey, with great power, the importance of personal responsibility, of considering and taking seriously the possible consequences of our actions, of compassion and care for our fellow humans. (Many adults need these messages just as much as many teens do.) This is very much a novel about human relationships and human need for connection. (It isn't a romance as such, but teenage romantic attraction plays a role.)
Our setting here is an unnamed city, in an unspecified part of the U.S., in the author's present, ca. 1968; and our title character is Antonio Pignati, a lonely retiree who collects pig figurines (hence his nickname). But our two first-person narrators are high-school sophomores John and Lorraine, who alternate chapters to deliver what they intend to be a true account of their acquaintance with him. This literary device is an effective one; they both sincerely try to be reliable narrators, but they have different perspectives that sometimes correct and qualify each other's. We come to get inside both their heads; they come very vividly and realistically alive for us, and so (through their eyes) does Mr. Pignati. I was about their age in the time this tale is set (I graduated from high school in 1970), and I can testify that they're thoroughly believable teens for that time and place, though my personal traits and experiences didn't identically mirror theirs. They're not always likable, mature, and responsible, and they're products of an all-too-common detached style of parenting. But neither of them, at their core, are genuinely bad kids (though Lorraine has a bit more of a moral compass than John does), and they're capable of learning from mistakes.
In some ways, the culture of 2018, 50 years later, is significantly different from theirs (and mostly not for the better). The Internet didn't exist, so John and Lorraine aren't attached to a device every waking minute, and don't turn to it for ersatz companionship. Today's drug culture hadn't taken hold to anything like the present degree; the only dangerous drugs they have to contend with are nicotine (which, of course, is deadly enough) and alcohol. And while our two narrators have dawning male-female feelings towards each other, those feelings are experienced in a cultural context that still presupposes teenage sexual abstinence as the norm, not a toxic surrounding culture that aggressively legitimatizes and promotes teen sexual activity. These differences color their experience. But I think their feelings, needs, and moral and psychological struggles and epiphanies are universal enough that a lot of modern teens could still relate to them; and any adult readers who read serious fiction and think about meaningful things could relate to all three main characters.
To his credit, Zindel deals with the problem of bad language here by using the device of a substituted "@#$%" for the cuss words, or a "3@#$%" to indicate really bad words. (That's represented as a suggestion of Lorraine's, to refine John's saltier narrative voice.) Of course, in reality the idea is the author's, but it's a constructive one, which effectively balances a degree of realism with good taste.