Stolen from Post-curfew bewonderments.
Did I ever mention that I love writing? I do. This time, though, the words just won’t form any sort of pattern. I know more or less what I want to say, about this book. It was several months since I first read it (several hours since I re-read some parts) and I want to write something about it. But I can’t do it justice. I can’t even make it one piece. Therefor, I shall now try I whole new way of writing a book reviews: letting loose my part-done scribbles.
I think it was only a matter of time before I had to read The fault in our stars by John Green. I’ve had it recommended many times, but I thought it would be a depressing story, cry-your-heart-out-and-decide-to-do-good type of story. It could have been.
I hate and love this book.
I love Hazel. She is prodigiously sophisticated and incredibly smart – one of the rare teens who prefer reading poetry to writing it, as her friend so elegantly put it.
Does that mean she can’t watch shitty TV and wear comfortable clothes? No. She manages somehow to combine an intelligent sense of humor with a “teen” way of talking – how cool isn’t that? I say talking, because that is how the book is written: a long, embellished monologue.
Most important is her rare ability to laugh at her own misery and anything else that comes along. Really, that is what makes the book bearable to read.
Being younger than her I’m probably not entitled to call her “beyond her years” but if I am, Hazel Grace is just that.
Better yet (not better, but good), she is not the only fantastic person in the story. Surrounded by Augustus Waters (too good to be true).
Whyyyy doesn’t An imperial affliction exist?
And for the things I hate? Cancer. Two teenagers with cancer fall in love, neither of them know how long they have left. That’s bound to be a tragic story, and it is.
The outline is indeed sad; Two teenagers with cancer fall in love, neither of them know how long they will live. That’s bound to be a tragic story, and it is. Many times reading it I cried. But there’s more to it. Somehow, this tragic story is funny. Hazel Grace has the rare ability to laugh at her own misery. She is smart, in a way she is the person i wawnt tp be
But there’s so much more to it. I
“Those who matter don’t mind and those who mind don’t matter.”
It’s been a few months, and I still haven’t found my “voice” with this blog. There are so many things I want to share, so much I need to complain about, so much I want to say.
At first I had intended this some sort of cooking blog, with one recipe and a little story for every post, but it didn’t take long to discover the downs of that. I don’t have the patience or appetite to test bake and perfect every recipe, and even so I don’t have enough ideas. Then, I had the idea of making myself a cultural journalist – books, movies and music – which turned out better. I won’t abandon that. Only that doesn’t cover everything I want to say. I want to discuss ethics and philosophy, lifestyle and society. Maybe even politics at some point. Nice profile, huh? Scones and scars.
I do like my sprawling topics, it’s nice being able to write about anything. When I do. Sometimes I hold back from posting things because they’ve already been said too many times. Sometimes I think I might regret them later on – try reading old facebook updates and you’ll see what I mean. At other times I don’t feel like I have any right to write things; as much as I feel sorry for people, how can I write about things I never experienced? It’s easy to cuddle up on the couch and feel sorry for those who can’t – it’s hard trying to imagine what it feels like.
This is probably the issue with most teenager book writers – the ones with a confused kid in “the society of today” where the author doesn’t get it at all. The kind of book where the moral takes over the story completely, where the ending is happy but the journey most important. Well, those are awful and I’m afraid the result will be like that if I try to write about things I never experienced. At the same time someone has to fight injustice and if the victims don’t, who will? Not just victims actually – I try to write fiction and the hardest part (well, one of them) is making a somewhat realistic portrait of a person who is nothing like me.