It’s time, kids. Put on your Sunday best and grab yourself some professional mourners, because our dear Augustus Waters is dead.
Augustus Waters died eight days after his prefuneral, at Memorial, in the ICU, when the cancer, which was made of him, finally stopped his heart, which was also made of him.
That reads like it was put together by someone who only has a vague idea of how words work. But we’ll let that go, because the important part is that our hero is officially worm food. Literally a page after we had that fake funeral.
It’s a little abrupt. I mean, I’m all for it, considering it spares us 8 days of listening to “Augustus was so perfect and wonderful, except he wasn’t because cancer patients aren’t perfect and wonderful which is why you should think this is the deepest book ever, except he is because I need you to fall in love with him so you cry when he dies . . .” So, thank God for small favors.
But still, is this it? I mean, we have about 3,000 pages of “romance,” a couple chapters of cancer, and then thud. I’d say Green was being deliberately cold — you know, this isn’t like those sappy “cancer books” — if I didn’t think this was supposed to be the point where I start crying.
But whatever. We’re only at the first sentence.