The Fault in Our Stars
Published January 10, 2012 by Dutton Books (Penguin)
I'm sure you've all seen the many, many rave review of this book, and you don't need another one.
But that's not why I'm not writing a real review. I'm not writing one because I can't.
Oh, sure, I could tell you that there was Epic Crying, not the graceful kind where tears trail silently down your cheeks but the awkward kind where your face gets all blotchy and you stop being able to breathe through your nose and your skin gets dried out from all the salt. And then there was Laughing Too Hard to Breathe, which led to more crying. I could tell you about how Augustus and Hazel are sweet and special, how the writing matches Hazel perfectly, blah blah blah. That would be great, if it mattered.
Spoiler alert (don't worry, not really): it doesn't.
It doesn't matter because this book is far more than the sum of its parts, as nice as those parts are. Describing this book as good or bad would be as ridiculous as calling the whole of existence good or bad. Some things just are. They defy qualification.
This book is infinite, a sigularity compressing time and making the rest of the world disappear. It's also not long enough. It's awful and wonderful, hilarious and tragic, magical and painfully prosaic.
But most of all, it is. And it might, for a moment, remind you that you are too.