Book Review: The Fault In Our Stars

[Warning - may contain spoilers. I'll try to keep them to a minimum.]

The Fault in Our Stars
John Green, 2012. Published by Dutton Books, available pretty much anywhere. 

It is now only a few days before the long-awaited film of The Fault in Our Stars, by John Green, is released in cinemas in the UK. This morning my housemate marched down the stairs, placed the book firmly next to me, and demanded that I read it before we see the film. 

I wasn't sure if I'd like the Fault in Our Stars, so I started reading nervously. More than nervously: guardedly. I almost wanted to dislike it because it's so popular, and I'm not a fan of most of the big, easy-read popular books out there - the Twilight Sagas and endless dystopian novel series being churned out at the moment. However, I've been following the Vlogbrothers on youtube for some years now, and John and Hank Green both stand out to me as intelligent, kind men, and ideal role models for young people. They know what they're talking about, and who they're talking to, and they encourage and inspire their fanbase to act responsibly and think independently. Even without the media hype and the film, John Green's name on the cover is pretty much a guarantee of thoughtful, intelligent writing. 

The book opens with a dedication to Esther Earl, a nerdfighter (the name given to the Vlogbrothers' fan base) who died of cancer some years ago. John met her before she died, and nerdfighters celebrate #EstherDay in her honour - a day to promote love, positivity, and tolerance. As such, John's foreword, reminding readers that the story is entirely fictional and that he does not wish readers to attempt to place facts into the story, is particularly needed. It would be easy to search for Esther and John in the story, especially in the troubling relationship between Hazel and novelist Peter Van Houten, but this would undermine the relevance and autonomy of the story, and risk fictionalising Esther. TFiOS is not a novel that pretends to be real; the bands and books within the story are invented, and the story stays within its confines. It exists in a small world; it doesn't pretend to be anything more than a story for teenagers, working around the conventions of its genre. 

Yet this acceptance is not a limitation, but rather the brilliance of the novel. Augustus Waters struggles throughout the novel with his own insignificance, whilst Hazel accepts that living her own life, and doing ordinary things, is okay. 'Okay' is an important word in TFiOS: it is the word that stands for acceptance of what life deals us, and more than that, a firm belief in beauty in small things, everyday occurrences. Being 'just a good book' or 'just a normal kid' is okay. 

But okay doesn't mean simplistic, or patronising. The story itself is refreshingly simple: the plot runs in chronological order, with one strong, reliable narrator, and a small cast of detailed characters, giving it readability and easy emotional access. The 'stars' of the book are arguably the secondary characters - Isaac, Peter Van Houten, Lidewij, and Caroline Mathers (oh, wait till you find out about her. That bit broke me.) I thought it took a while for Augustus to become a fully fleshed out character, and he often irritated me - pretentious beyond even the average lit student, and far more open about his love for Hazel than any seventeen year old I've ever encountered. But Green's writing, again, is clever and critical: the character of Augustus is a comment on perception and portrayal of the heroic, male love interest, working through the clichés to the painfully real, vulnerable character who appears in the last third of the book. It's worth sticking with his pretentious 'I am not in the business of denying myself simple pleasures' nonsense to hear what he has to say in the final pages. Green works with the conventions of character writing in young adult fiction, using them to establish boundaries and relationships, and then breaking them to great emotional and structural effect. 

The real strength of the book is not just in the plot, or characterisation, but in the questions raised between the conscious questions asked by the characters, and the questions raised in the structure and authorial decisions shaping the story. Green's pacing is gentle, but never sluggish, and he allows enough 'everyday life' to creep in to make the story realistic, but not overweighted with detail. The main weight of the plot is philosophical, rather than physical; instead of hefty medical terminology, the plot centres on poetry and existential questions. Although occasionally wearying, Green's resistance of sentimentality makes this tactic bearable, and sometimes thought-provoking. 

The most obvious issue raised is the question of how to portray the life of a child with cancer, whilst resisting the mawkishness of channel 4 documentaries or sentimental eulogizing; the problems of how they want to be remembered, and of how to prioritise and reflect on their lives is a crucial question for the main characters. Green treads through this question lightly, resisting the temptation to tell the reader how to feel or sentimentalize situations. Where a character or event could become cliché, he is honest: Augustus, for instance, is as good-looking as any love-interest ought to be, but he himself knows this, and it doesn't dominate his character or become a symbol of his innate good nature, a fault of the Twilight genre. Green also resists the temptation to indulge in pity for Hazel and the other cancer sufferers; he confronts the issue on every page, but he doesn't let it rule the story even though it rules Hazel and Augustus' lives. Personally, I think this act of literary defiance is a far better tribute to cancer sufferers than any amount of sentimentality over the awfulness of their situation.

In some stories about kids with cancer, the question of the novel is how they survive, how they cope, how their families react (and so on), and the answer is almost formulaic; the tragedy, the pain, the resolution. As satisfying as this might be to a spoon-fed readership, Green has more respect for his readers, and for kids like Esther and the reality of their lives, to write another book of this ilk. In TFiOS, cancer is not the answer but the question, and the answers aren't always predictable. Rather than going for big, overdramatic twists, the structure of TFiOS is gentle curves, with believable and powerful revelations lowered slowly into the story. In other words, it punches below the belt; it isn't a book that can be closed halfway through if the reader doesn't like a plot change. Aside from a few clangers such as 'I never took another photo of Augustus Waters', there is little in the way of foreshadowing; instead, certain catch phrases and repeated events hold the story together. I won't spoil the ending, but I will say that to my mind, it's a technical masterpiece. Content-wise, it brings together several themes and ideas from the story, and is deservedly emotional, but not overdone, but best of all, it's not a satisfying ending. In satisfying stories about kids with cancer, everyone goes into remission, the couples get each other, and they all go off to college and have kids who grow up to be ballet dancers or marine biologists or firemen, and because they are brave and good, cancer never pops its ugly head up again. Throughout TFiOS, the characters are preoccupied with the ending of a particular book, and its lack of resolution (which Green consciously has Hazel describe as 'literary'). Is it literary to lack an ending, or is that just real life? Should stories be complete? In the end, TFiOS is neither of these things. The ending doesn't fully satisfy our need to complete all the stories, but what we are given is perfect in its own, self-contained way. In the end, Hazel acknowledges that 'forever' can exist within 'their numbered days', and although that is really not okay, it can be okay - a decision mirrored in the ending, with its mixed sadness and acceptance, the lack of What Happened Later details. It doesn't satisfy, but it's right - respectful to the real struggles of cancer sufferers, respectful to the readers, and to the novel's question of what makes a good ending. Perhaps Green's refusal to fully end the story is an answer in itself: the best endings are not really ends at all. 

Feminism: Did I Really Say That?

Trigger Warning: I do discuss my views on the pro-life/pro-choice debate later on as an example

About a year ago, I wrote a blog post trying to work out my feelings on feminism. I received quite a few responses - some agreeing, some disagreeing, and some offering me information and sources to look into feminism and expand my knowledge and understanding of the issues surrounding it.

Since then, I have been trying to understand more about the feminist movement and gain a clearer picture of what is happening in it today, as opposed to the fuzzy picture of its past I'd been basing my opinions on. One year on from that conversation with my tutor where I refused to call myself a feminist, I would probably be happy enough to stick it in my Twitter bio. I follow most of the right feminist on the Twitter-sphere, I've engaged in the debates about sexual consent in the YouTube community, I've searched the right terms in Tumblr. There is a right (or should that be left?) way to to Feminism on the Internet, and I think I've got it sorted.

The first thing  I learnt about feminism is that sexism is still around. Following @EverydaySexism on Twitter has been an eye-opening experience; sexual assault is real, and sexist prejudice occurs frequently, in both minor and major ways. Often the perpetrators are unaware that they have done anything sexist, having been poorly educated about gender issues or raised with sexist opinions as part of their cultural norm. A year ago, I reckoned that women's lot was basically 'all-right'. As I sat in the back of a taxi stuck in a traffic queue and tried to ignore the man in the next car masturbating whilst staring at me, I realised that I might just be wrong.

Another thing I've learnt is that feminism isn't just about women's rights, a common misconception I held a year ago. Although women's rights are obviously the core of feminism, feminists recognise that you cannot support the rights of one oppressed group whilst ignoring another, or even allowing them to be oppressed to further your own ends. As a result, good feminist practice means supporting other movements for equality, acting against ableism, racism, and class prejudice. Ableism is a new word, and a new concept, to me, and possibly to itself. It replaces more negative words describing anyone with a disability, preferring to talk more positively in terms of ability, rather than lack of it - a term which removes the dividing wall between 'able' and 'disabled', classifying us instead on a spectrum of ability. Work against prejudice against disabled people has been around for a few decades, but the ableist movement is encouraging people to look beyond the obvious - e.g. allowing disabled students to go to university - and challenge assumptions and practices which disadvantage disabled people. The feminist movement seems to have stood staunchly behind this, especially where the two intersect. Indeed, intersect is the appropriate word here - the correct term for the union of these separate movements is Intersectionalism. I had to Google it the first time I saw it, and this awesome blog post came up - check it out if you'd like more information. It means that no-one acts alone; not only do we stick together, we watch out for ways in which our group maybe committing other types of prejudice, e.g. white woman taking precedence over coloured women at a feminist meeting.

Discovering Intersectionalism has given a name for something I've always felt, the sentiment of Martin Niemöller’s First They Came. But the application of Intersectionalism within feminism seems to be complicated. Phrases like 'check your privilege' and 'calling someone out' are the warning signs. 'Check your privilege' is basically the sentiment of the opening of The Great Gatsy ('just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had'), but reversed - remember that you are privileged, and that your background is the same as the oppressors. 'Calling someone out' means that if someone means publicly correcting someone because they have inadvertently said something ableist, or transphobic, or without awareness of their privilege in speaking, etc. I respect the good intentions of these actions, and agree with their basis, but in practice it seems to lead to a lot of feminist in fighting, squabbling, and divisions. People feel hurt as they fall out of the clique, having forgotten to use a neutral pronoun or dared to write an article from a man's perspective or disagreed with a statement about the glass ceiling in the workplace. Sometimes these issues are huge and should be noticed, and the feminist community should rightly feel proud that it is highly accountable and self-critical.

However, the result of this accountability and criticism seems to have been that a 'right' and a 'wrong' way of doing feminism has emerged, and some feminists will pounce on anyone doing the wrong type of feminism, and forbid them from calling themselves a feminist. This attitude rightly frustrates most other feminists, who are more interested in the practical application of feminism to the world. Laurie Penny, one of my favourite New Statesman writers, had a fantastic rant on her Twitter page this morning about 'Is it feminist to ...' articles. Although we're good at criticising victim-blaming and slut-shaming, we're even better at feminist-shaming.

Firstly, men. Male feminists can be 'Allies' but have to respect that there are certain arguments and places they must have no voice in, and no presence thereof, partially so that women can speak and not fear oppression, partially because they are descended from that great race of oppressors, the Male Species.

As a woman, I'm a bit better off, but a white, cisgender (the opposite of transgender), heterosexual woman I have to watch pretty carefully in case I throw my privilege around. I understand the importance of this; in so many places, the voices of the cultural norm overshadow and dominate the voices of the minority. I don't know what it is like to feel oppressed. However, at times the preoccupation with our differences, especially ones we have no control over, seem to hinder rather than help the feminist discourse. We're so obsessed with breaking down the rankings that we risk creating an alternative social hierarchy, where the right to speak and have a voice is negated by your lack of pre-determined privilege. I'm being careful making this comment because it is the exact same argument that Daily Mail (or Daily Male, right?) readers make when they claim that only asylum-seekers with twenty children get council houses, and that people ought to feel sorry for us poor 'indigenous' white Brits. That argument is clearly balls: my feeling here is that we haven't struck the right balance yet. In an ideal world, oppression would be historic, past disadvantages would be readdressed, and people of any sex, gender, race, ability etc would be able to discuss issues with equal voices. Until that happens, protecting the voice of minorities is important - I just feel that we haven't worked out a good way to do this without alienating anyone who happens to be in the majority, which is particularly galling if as part of the majority (white/cis/het) you're becoming feminist to stick up for the rights of someone in the minority. People get alienated for stupid reasons. I'm not personally offended, but it doesn't exactly make me want to get involved in feminist activities either.

The thing that really causes me problems within feminism, however, is how certain opinions - opinions I don't, and can't hold - have become set-in-stone feminist doctrines, and disagreeing with them seems to reduce the validity of your status as a Feminist. Although one of the principles in feminism is free debate, a little experience tells you instantly which argument will be taken up as the 'feminist' voice, and which the voice of the outsider and oppressor. For instance, I believe that women should have the right to wear the Hijab, so long as they do so because it is part of their personal belief system, and not being forced on them by men. Some feminists agree here, but those who disagree do so aggressively and angrily, labelling pro-hijab groups anti-feminist.

Let's take an even-worse example. I am pro-life. As a Christian (and a practising Catholic!) life is sacred to me from conception onwards. I think that pre-conception contraception is fine, but any form of abortion is unacceptable. This is my personal opinion, and I would not force it on anyone else, but in this case, my faith dictates that I have a moral duty to stick up for my belief, and for unborn children. I chose to do this by supporting better contraceptive advice for teenagers and more support for pregnant mothers etc rather than standing outside abortion clinics with placards, believing that it is better to treat the cause rather than the symptom, and that those kind of tactics are unpleasant and abusive. However, the loud voice of Mainstream Feminism seems to consider that to be pro-life is to be anti-woman, and a form of oppression over women's bodies. Men cannot have a say in what women do with their bodies; their foetus' do not count - in fact, only the woman in question does. It's a valid argument unless you believe in the sanctity of unborn life, which I do. Yet because I hold this opinion, I am seen to be siding with the Oppressor, the continuation of male and societal control over women's bodies. I'm not writing about this to start the pro-life/pro-choice argument, even though I know people will message me complaining about my views. The point is that feminism can be exclusive and restrictive, to its detriment.

Over the last year, my opinions and perspectives have been challenged in many ways, and I hope will continue to be challenged. I've found things I like and things I dislike about feminist, people I admire and people who frustrate me. I've also realised that I, and people like me, need to be active and aware of the complex social issues around us, fighting against prejudice in all its forms - whether that's black people sat at the back of the bus or the local radio playing Blurred Lines. Feminism is a shifting and dynamic movement, and yes, it's imperfect. But you know what? So were all the other movements that made a difference. We look back on the Civil Rights movement or the early gay-rights protesters or Emmeline Pankhurst and the Suffragettes as perfect examples because their cause was just and they succeeded, and we whitewash the flaws and the divisions in their campaigns - but that doesn't mean they weren't there. For all its stumbling blocks and cliques and in-fighting, today's feminist movement could be the successor to the glorious movements of the past, achieving monumental change not just for women but for society as a whole. It's worth baring the hitches and virtual-slapping and bitching to be part of that.

One year on from the pretentiously titled 'A Conversation With Feminism' blog post, I'm finally having that conversation - with myself. In my last post, I asked: 'Am I a feminist?' Today, I can finally answer: 'Yes.'

Joanna.

Dear Joanna: You Look Okay (TW: Eating Disorders)

Trigger Warning: In this letter I talk about body confidence and eating disorders. 

Dear Joanna,

Of all the letters I'm going to write to you, this one seemed like the most important, because it was so important to you for so long. 

At the moment you are thirteen and one of the tallest girls in your year. You are what they call an 'early bloomer' - people often thought that you were a year 9 student when you were only in year 7, which you kind of liked. Your problem is that although you are as tall, and sometimes as mature, as someone in their mid-teens, you still have a child's body shape. You have puppy fat, with big apple cheeks, wide arms, and a stomach that sticks out, especially when you slump, which you have a habit of doing. 

Around this point, you start to realise that some of the other girls in your year look a bit different from you. They have proper breasts and hips, and boys fancy them - and no-one fancies you (that you are aware of. Actually, a few boys do, but they don't tell you till much later!). You become increasingly self-conscious. Around this point you start wearing baggy clothes to hide your shape, and moaning to your friends about how fat you are. Then you discover the scales. 

The record of how much you weigh is scattered about in your diary. The day you tip from nine stone into ten, I remember, is particularly dismal. I remember, around fifteen or so, having to listen to a boy in your class moaning about how he weighed nine stone; you sat there, hating him, but hating yourself more. I remember your joy after you had flu for a few weeks and your cheeks hollowed out a little. I still pinch my cheeks, trying to decide if they're any chubbier than they were the week before.

During the summer before you turn fourteen, you decide to take action. Whilst you're off school, you make your own breakfast and lunch, and as you get up after your parents have gone to work, it's not hard to hide it when you start skipping meals. You have to eat dinner because you eat as a family, but soon you're surviving the rest of the day on an apple and water. You weigh yourself obsessively. The weight is not coming off. After about two weeks of your secret diet, the whole family goes to visit your grandparents, where your Grandma cooks a beautiful roast lunch. You force yourself to eat it, dreading the weight you'll put on. When it gets to pudding, you refuse to eat it, and at Grandma and Granddad's, pudding is not optional. You almost cry. 'I can't do it.' Mum takes you outside and tells you that she'd rather that you were obese than that you had an eating disorder. You talk for a while, then go in, and eat pudding.

Of course, it doesn't end there, even though you do start eating breakfast again after that week. A few months later a girl who starved herself to death is in the news. She weighed under 5 stone, and you looked at her and thought, 'I wish I was as strong willed as her. She went a bit too far - I could stop before I kill myself.' I think you knew that anorexia doesn't work that way, but you convinced yourself that being anorexic meant that you were in charge of your body, not destroying yourself. I can still see that photo of the dead girl. You could see every bone in her body.

At the time, you thought the thing that was stopping you was your lack of will power, and you hated yourself for it, but the real thing that stopped you was your faith, and your family. In God you found the certainty that even though, in your eyes, you were fat and ugly, you were loved and your life had a purpose. It didn't matter what you looked like as long as your were living for him. You were also scared of hurting your family, especially your parents, and so you fought against all the stupid urges, and they supported you, as they still do and always will. 

Of course, you still compare yourself to other girls, and feel large. The honest truth is that you're not skinny, and you never will be - you have a large bone structure, and natural curves, and that's okay. Most women look like you, and most men are alright with that - and the ones that aren't are not worth your time! After a few years your weight stabilises and you slowly get your adult figure, and you'll feel a lot more confident in your body. One of your worst fears was that you'd keep on ballooning into Joanna the Inflatable Girl, a female Dudley Dursley, and it doesn't happen; at 20, you're roughly the national average. You stop growing at 5"5 too, so don't worry about towering over people - you actually spend a surprising amount of time feeling short...

Here are some things I want to tell you.

Firstly, one of the secrets to looking good like those confident girls in your year, is believing in yourself and your body. Wear clothes that make you feel happy and confident, hold your head up high, and believe in yourself. When I look back over my teenage years there's a clear dividing line between the places where I was confident, and had plenty of friends, and the places where I hid and was an onlooker, on the outside. The more you act as if you believe in yourself, the more other people will too. 

Secondly, you need to wash your hair more. Grease is SO not attractive. At thirteen you're hitting the hormones badly. Don't stress - you'll survive it, and one day, you will have a pimple free face. Mostly. 

Thirdly, stop weighing yourself. Instead of concentrating on all the bits of your body you dislike and how much they weigh, try and look at yourself as a whole. Remind yourself of the things you like about yourself: you have nice eyes, your hair is getting really long, you look good in your new jeans. 

Fourthly, stop reading calorie information on labels. Eating healthily means thinking about the balance of food you eat over the entire day, not just restricting yourself from eating anything with more than 150 calories. 

Let me tell you about the turning point, so you have something to look forward to. 

Age fifteen, you go to Florence with your family and visit the Uffizi, which is a very famous and beautiful art museum. Walking around in quiet awe, you notice that the women in the pictures aren't the stick thin women you've looked up to for years. At Titian's Venus of Urbino and Botticelli's Birth of Venus you stare at the female nudes, comparing their rounded forms with your own, and you have a revelation. Once upon a time, beauty meant having curves, having a figure. These women have breasts and hips; their stomachs stick out, their arms are wide. And yet the artists chose them for the women who were the epitome of all beauty: Mary, the Virgin Mother and most holy of all women, and Venus, the goddess of love. Compared to them, the models and ideals of the 21st century seem insubstantial: these women have lasted and will last long after the 'thigh-gap' or 'visible ribs' goes out of fashion. Over the years this will become a point of consolation for you: when you look at yourself and see fat and hate your curves, you will force yourself to think of these girls, and tell yourself that you are a Renaissance woman, and that is beautiful. 

Lastly, I want to tell you that you're happy with your body now, but that wouldn't be true. You are still self-conscious, and sometimes you let it get to you. Last December, when you were struggling with your workload and general health, you stopped eating properly for around two weeks, and lost at least 6 pounds, if not more - and you were happy about it. It's easier to hate yourself rather than doing something proactive to improve your health, and sometimes you give in to those feelings. It is getting better though. You are happier with your body, in general, and you do try to exercise a little more, and eat healthier (most of the time...). There are ups and downs. Mostly you eat what you want, and don't care, but sometimes, like this morning, drinking a glass of milk feels like pouring a glass of fat onto your hips. Maintaining the balance between a healthy consciousness of your health and an unhealthy obsession is tough, but it gets better.

Most importantly, you understand that the old adage 'it's what's inside that counts' really is true. You have friends who love you for who you are and wouldn't care less if you had blue skin and horns, and who you love in the same way. Work on who you are inside, and the outside will take care of itself. Nice people have their own kind of magnetism; they light up rooms; people are attracted to their personality. Faces grow to suit their owners. In the end, your body is just a tool you use for moving your spirit around. Remember that, and look after it, but who you are inside will always be more important. 

Joanna

P.S. You look good today. 

Dear Joanna: Writing to my 13 year-old self

Dear Joanna,

Hello, Joanna! This is Joanna, writing back. It's Sunday the 9th of January, 2014, which makes me 20 years old. You are 13, and in your second year of secondary school.

Let's start with what I remember about you. One of your biggest fears was that I would forget what it was like to be 13, and I want to reassure you that I haven't forgotten you - not one bit. After all, you spend a lot of time thinking about what it will be like to be me, and dreaming about all the things you'll do in the future. To be honest, you spend far too much time living in the future. One of the things I've learnt in the last few years is to try and stay focused on the present, and let the future take care of itself.

You're 13, a ball of hormones, opinions, and angst - like most thirteen year olds! Trust me, it gets better. You're one of the tallest kids in your class, and considered quite bright, with the weird result that you're both self-conscious and a total show-off. Sorry, but it has to be said: you do show-off, and whilst it impresses the teachers, it isn't really impressing any of your classmates at the moment... You're learning the flute, although you hate practicing. Your favourite subjects are Religious Education, Drama, English, and History, although you enjoy almost everything, except sport. You want to be a missionary, or a writer, or an explorer. You love the Redwall series by Brian Jacques, the Narnia stories, and audio books. Your favourite colour is purple and your favourite animal is the squirrel. You have blond highlights that make you look like a zebra and a HUGE crush on Orlando Bloom. A really big crush. It's a bit scary how much you know about him. Unfortunately, Orlando does not stay that good looking - you really won't fancy him when you see him in the Hobbit (yes, they make a film of that!). 

I remember being you. I remember looking through the property pages in the newspaper and choosing my dream house. I remember reading The Curious Incident of The Dog In The Night Time under the table in the dining room, because I wasn't old enough to read it yet (Mum and Dad knew you were doing it, but let you get away with it!). I remember secretly weighing myself in the bathroom and furiously scribbling about how much I hated myself in my diary. I remember how much I worried about friendships and boyfriends and gossip. I remember the excitement of getting an allowance for the first time, and saving up to buy myself a digital camera. (You keep that camera for years, until it breaks when you put it in your handbag without the case, age 19. Sorry.) What I'm trying to say is that being you mattered. At times it was tough, but you have a lot to look forward to. 

Over the next few weeks I'm going to write responses to all the worried notes you left in your diary to your future self, hoping desperately that I'd be okay, and trying to imagine that I could respond. One of your worries was that I'd loose the power to imagine things, so these letters will be proof that I didn't, even though I can't make imaginary worlds the way you could. I'm still a daydreamer, and I'm imagining you opening these letters, seven years ago.

Until next time, keep dreaming.
Love,
Almost-Grown-Up Joanna x