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.
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.
