I can’t really describe that book.
My friend lent me John Green’s newest novel The Fault In Our Stars. I began reading it after school today at three, and just finished it. My lips are cracked and bleeding, that sensitive patch of skin under my eyes is puffy and throbbing, and I can’t gather my thoughts, or control this stead flow of tears. I haven’t cried in a while, by the way, and let me tell you, that was necessary and wonderful. I love a good cry, and that one was well earned (and sneaky, I didn’t realize I was crying until I tasted salt on my lips). That was easily his best write for me, from the standpoint of making a point.
He wrote this beautiful story in a way that beats a heartbreaking reality into you until you have no choice but to believe it. And in a way that lets you weave your relations to the story, and struggles that arise in the novel seamlessly together with the plot so that it’s almost as if you’re on the same emotional journey the characters are, if that makes one ounce of sense.
This was the kick in the ass (and in the chest, quite frankly) that I needed.
