Hello Internet. Welcome back for Review #11. And now for a book that has a massive following! By (not really) popular demand: The Fault in Our Stars.
Right now, you should be lying on the floor prostate, confessing your sins and praising John Green. If you aren’t doing exactly that, you are not showing nearly enough respect. He should walk around demanding people to call him messiah, and they should be responding back to him “if it pleases his holiness, centre of the universe, may I call you God?”(Don’t do that, by the way. Haven’t we established I already am?). That is the level of respect he deserves. The Fault in Our Stars is so, desperately and incredibly beautiful that everything else is the random scribbling of a madman on toilet paper with crayon. Let me tell you how beautiful it is. It almost made me cry. Me. The person who has only cried about a book when [Dumbledore dies at the end of the Half-Blood Prince].
But I digress. This book is incredible. Which is small wonder why most of the time it goes around with its head placed firmly up its hindquarters. The style is easy to get into, easy to read and to the modern audience, relatable. But if I know anything about books (which is a much-clichéd and overused assurance), it’s that this book isn’t going to last the eons. It might have a plot line to make a person feel so deeply for the characters that you wish that they could materialise in front of you just so that you could give them a massive hug. It might be poetic enough that you could claim Shakespeare had reincarnated to dictate the book to John Green. But this isn’t the sort of writing that ages.
This type of book is unique. With its views on death, morality and videogames, it perfectly describes the human condition in a contemporary setting. But that is the problem. Unlike books like 1984, Eva Luna, To Kill a Mockingbird and dare I say Harry Potter, which can fit almost timelessly into any setting, this book is a perfect picture of the modern era. And that is why it cannot last, as if it is seen out of context it is hapless and confusing. When I begrudgingly and shamefacedly caved in and accepted a copy of this book from my friend Hanelts, I was expecting either a book better than the bible or worse than Twi… nope, can’t even. But what I got was, well, against the expectations and hype.
I’m not going to say this was bad writing. I’m not even going to say it was mildly mediocre. It deserves the title of good, if not great. But the hype and fad surrounding this book isn’t going to last it forever, and then it will just be another dated reference from a literary period which wanted to mark the world, and was left with false prestige and hope that, instead of billowing with the wind hangs there like a limp flower. This book is an exercise in the want of greatness, but might just end up as misplaced pulp.
The Fault in Our Stars was published in 2012 by Dutton Books. It can be found on Amazon here.
Yours: J.M. Pear