Momo is a weird book: It clearly has the potential to be and to feel very profound. But it was never quite that for me. Maybe it’s that the capitalism criticism is just too open and too jarring when mixed with the magical elements? Maybe it’s that Momo herself, as a character, always kept her distance to me. I don’t know. It’s a good book, but it never quite reached “great” for me.
I’m sure it shaped my aversion to needlessly efficient systems, though, and Ende was definitely ahead of the curve here.
