So in case you didn’t notice, I wasn’t here last week. I wish I could say it was because I was horribly ill or my pet cockroach died or something, but . . . I was just lazy.
In my defense, I wrote a paper about social classification as opposed to controlled vocabularies for use in thesauri to organize metadata, so hopefully you’ll forgive me for not having much brainpower to spare for The Fault in Our Stars.
So Chapter 18 was . . . the worst. Green basically admitted that he wrote this book to show how much better he is than other writers — and no, I’m not kidding. Remember that interview I linked to last time? Well, I read a bit more of it, and I’m willing to give Green credit, because he thought more about stuff than I originally assumed, and sometimes I accused him of being stupid when he was intentionally setting things up to look dumb. (That doesn’t mean they weren’t poorly executed, but at least he was trying, and I suppose that counts for something.)
But then we come to this bit:
More generally, I wrote this book partly because I was tired of reading stories in which dying or chronically sick people served no purpose in the world except to teach the rest of us to be Grateful For Every Moment or whatever. Making the lives of the dying about the betterment of the social order for the well really offends me, because it implies that the dying are already dead, and that their lives have less intrinsic meaning than other lives.
Well thank you, Green. Whatever would we do without your insightful understanding of the human psyche and your capturing it so beautifully? Literally no one is as talented a writer as you are. You are the best. You are God.
Well, why don’t we start reading The Best Book Ever Written, huh? Continue reading