The Fault in Our Stars
First, let me get Amsterdam out of my system. Granted, I’m not a horny teenager weakened by cancer, but if I had only three days in Amsterdam (and who goes to Europe for three frickin’ days??) I’d have spent more time outside in, you know, Amsterdam.
This is a hard book to discuss without giving it all away, which I really don’t want to do, because I’m sure there are lots of people out there who plan on reading this (not that they’re all right here reading this post).
I didn’t really like the second half. But some of that it tied up in personal memories of my dad’s cancer. And granted, my dad wasn’t a teenager, and he had a totally different type of cancer than anyone in the book, but still, he was sick and at home, and well…if you’ve read the book, it just wasn’t like that at all, but it also was in a way that I really didn’t want to revisit.
And the whole cigarette thing bothered me because the damn things DO cause cancer (see dad above) and even if Augustus wasn’t lighting up and inhaling, they were still there for the image and I call bullshit on the irony. Have I ever told you that when my dad was dying and finally lapsed into a coma that his hands still went through the motions of tapping a cigarette out from the pack, lighting it, and then bringing it up to his mouth to smoke? It’s creepy as hell to watch an unconscious person smoke an imaginary cigarette and it’ll impress upon you just how addictive the damn things are. So pretnding to smoke them just isn’t that cool in my world.
Okay, off the cigarette soapbox, which I’m usually better about not hopping on. The book still contains some great insight and writing. Even if, like I told Heather, it’s most definitely a John Green Book (see her post for details on why that is so).
In the end, I liked it. But I’m afraid I’m not going to be joining the Best Book of the Year Bandwagon.