This post will inevitably contain spoilers. You have been warned.
So the first time I read The Fault in Our Stars, I'd heard enough amongst the public that the story was an emotional one, and that teenagers were involved. Yet it didn't sink in that I had to look past the cancer part of the story. Cancer is a main theme in The Fault in Our Stars, but this is not a cancer book. It's a book about relationships (romantic and platonic), growing up, and fear, not just of death (which is inherently the unknown), but of abandoning childhood (which is the known). John Green tells us that this isn't just a cancer book by paralleling Hazel's experience with the characters in her favorite book, An Imperial Affliction. While Hazel is significantly more mature than people her own age and is able to see the world in a broad sense, she still seeks pleasure in calling a public item her own. Whether or not she is intentionally solipsistic in this sense, I don't know, but Hazel's views on her favorite novel are scarily similar to many readers (at least from my experiences):
"Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book. And then there are books like An Imperial Affliction, which you can't tell people about, books so special and rare and yours that advertising your affection feels like a betrayal" (Green, 33).
I've certainly read books like this--where I was the targeted audience and I was sharing a special secret with an author I'd surely known in another lifetime. That is the sign of a good author: someone who can make the worldly so personal. I know that, while reading about this book within a book, I thought John Green was penning this novel purely for a certain blond fan. But I also realize that this is a childish way to view literature, one that many of us outgrow, similar to leather pants, or pig-tail braids (okay, I still wear braids, so sue me). Even outside of The Fault in our Stars, authors have made this same observation, where we feel some kind of connection with someone we've never even met. J.D. Salinger, author of Catcher in the Rye, writes, "What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though."
Mr. Green, could I please call you and rant for a few seconds about Hazel and Augustus, please? Seeing as I'm the only person who's begging you for this favor...
Right. So Hazel not only prefers to view her life as youthfully as possible (because, oftentimes, we equate this with as happily as possible), but she describes things in a childish manner as well. Her infatuation with Augustus tells us of "young love,"and her inexperience becomes evident when Hazel observes other couples: "They were close enough to me that I could hear the weird noises of their mouths together" (18).
I haven't had many-an-adult come up to me and describe making out as "weird noises." Then again, not many adults have ventured into that territory in the business of Conversing with Me.
THOSE WERE INTENTIONAL CAPS, OKAY GRAMMAR NAZIS? I WAS NODDING TO THE BRILLIANCE THAT IS HAZEL'S WAY OF TITLING THINGS.
Oh great, now we've entered the territory of authorial intent. Long and dry explanation. If you're interesting in farther detail, take some Engl 200, or, better yet, watch this:
Glad we had this talk.
So there are several more instances in which Hazel exhibits childish traits, but I don't wanna bore y'all, and I know you've got billions of tests to study for, so I'll narrow it down to one hit-you-over-the-head-with-a-brick example. When talking with Augustus about which hospitals they attend (is it just me or does the word "attend" not seem fitting here? It's not like they're going to a soiree or a BYOB party), Hazel mentions that she goes to the children's hospital. She takes college courses and has gotten her period ("Congratulations! You're a woman! Now die [24]), yet she still holds onto the few bits of youth she has. Hazel is too wise for her own categorization, but she latches onto the title for dear life (pun intended).
Augustus, on the other hand, seems to leap into adulthood sans problem (or, as the French would say it, sans kelajrieoawjfeoas;). He mocks Hazel's use of her one cancer wish towards Disney World and uses "existentialist" in his everyday vocabulary. His activities, on the surface, seem adolescent and meaningless, but then he throws in these sage-like observations such as "that's the thing about pain. It demands to be felt" (63). Augustus seems to be the constant in Hazel's life, the solver of things. Granted, this is a narrative from Hazel's point of view, so we don't get Augustus' potential insecurities and anxieties, but he seems pretty well grounded in his ability to create grand productions, complete with promises for Amsterdam trips and stale sandwiches.
What makes this book so gut-wrenching (forgive my use of an overly-dramatic term, it just had to be said) is not just the fact that Gus dies (well, it's partially his death), but the fact that someone who practically dove headfirst into adulthood can never truly be gifted with responsibility, and someone who is so sheltered by youth must live on. This book obviously deals well with the destruction cancer brings, but looking closer, we can see that it tells us we don't have a choice in the matter. If we're racing to grow up, time seems to take forever. Once we want to bury back into the cocoon of childhood, we've already sprung into taxes and finding a real life job (whatever that entails). We can fool ourselves by describing things as "blushily" and "prayerfully," but ultimately, we cannot choose to lag behind and watch America's Next Top Model marathons. It is out of our control.
I'm sure I'll want to triple-visit this book, but for now, I must return to the madness that is midterms.
Namaste.
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