Hazel McHaffie

The Fault in our Stars

The Fault in our Stars

OK, I know everybody’s heard about this book – it’s been in the top 10 works of fiction; the film version’s had a fair old hype too. And indeed, I read it some time ago but events overtook me and I’ve only just got around to posting my blog about it.

The Fault in our StarsOn the face of it a love story about two terminally ill teenagers, written for teenagers, sounds as if it’ll be either mawkish or depressing. And this is no glossy utopian take on death; the narrative doesn’t shy away from the horrors of serious illness, the mundane distasteful physiological consequences as well as the more slippery psychological ones. But somehow The Fault in our Stars, in John Green‘s hands, manages to achieve a curious appeal all its own. If you go to his website and watch his video clips, you’ll see he speaks much as he writes – in a breathless rush.

Green is an established writer for young adults and he’s well able to capture the language (‘middle-school vernacular’), the thinking and priorities of teenagers, the uncertainties, the emotions, and he does so with precision and poignancy … most of the time anyway. I realise youngsters with cancer have a wisdom and maturity beyond their years, but I confess, some of the characters’ thoughts and exchanges stretched my credulity a tad at times. And yet that’s part of what the book’s about, a level of sophistication and erudition and insight that’s both profound and disturbing. I liked the combination of pathos and laugh-out-loud humour, the sensitivity balanced by mockery and wry wit – about serious issues like life, death, love, loss and grief. My kind of subjects.

The story line is simple. Sixteen-year old Hazel Grace is on borrowed time. We know from the outset she’s terminally ill with secondary deposits in her lungs after thyroid cancer. There’s no hiding her condition – she drags an oxygen cylinder behind her wherever she goes. Enter beautiful heart-throb Augustus/Gus, aged seventeen, who’s already lost a limb to osteosarcoma. Add to the mix heart-broken jilted Isaac who’s about to have his second cancerous eye surgically removed, and boy, you’re already wondering, can I take much more of this? But these teenagers aren’t sitting around feeling maudlin, no siree; indeed they have a refreshingly robust take on illness. The dialogue sparkles with raw in-house acceptance, mutual understanding and gallows humour. Their take on everything from a hand on a false knee and dubious jokes about blindness, to the ‘incessant mechanized haranguing of intensive care’, and the unnatural parting of a dead boy’s hair, is coloured by their up-close and personal experience of teetering on the edge of oblivion.

The story line might indeed be simple, but the messages beneath it are anything but. At the end of the text the author himself appends a note: This book is a work of fiction. I made it up. Neither novels nor their readers benefit from attempts to divine whether any facts hide inside a story. Such efforts attack the very idea that made-up stories can matter …

And that is certainly the point of this book: the made-up story matters. I wasn’t reduced to tears, not even nearly, but I did feel vaguely disturbed and challenged. The Fault in our Stars won’t be in my top one hundred favourites, but it was well worth reading. Next question: Should I watch the film? I’m usually loathe to see a dramatisation of a book I’ve read; the mismatch is too uncomfortable and disillusioning. I might just make an exception here.

Oh, and I bought a copy of the book for my teenage granddaughter for Christmas. That’s how much I recommend it.

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