Hmmm. A Young Adult book. About Teens with Terminal Cancer.
This is not the kind of book I would normally buy. But I did, and I read it (in a couple ofHmmm. A Young Adult book. About Teens with Terminal Cancer.
This is not the kind of book I would normally buy. But I did, and I read it (in a couple of sittings), and I cried like a baby at the end (like I was supposed to), and for a brief moment I felt confused that maybe I had learned a valuable life lesson from the precociously witty heartbreaking zingers of Hazel and Gus. But I'm not sure that it was any more of an emotional breakthrough than my reaction to the death of Ali McGraw in "Love Story".
Terminally ill children *are* heartbreaking. Writing on the topic in a way that is not emotionally manipulative seems almost impossible. John Green doesn't avoid the trap entirely. Given the subject matter, this book was much better than I had anticipated. Which is to say that Green writes with a charm that almost balances out the component of emotional manipulation. But not entirely.
Ah. What the heck. Read the damn book. You'll laugh. You'll cry.
This was embarrassingly bad, and the news that it has met with broad critical acclaim is infinitely depressing. Take two "damaged" stick figures, defiThis was embarrassingly bad, and the news that it has met with broad critical acclaim is infinitely depressing. Take two "damaged" stick figures, define each only in terms of their 'abnormality', surround them with the standard tableau of distant parents, cruel classmates. Make liberal use of facile, offensive stereotypes, for instance that the only conceivable career option for the emotionally retarded male basket case is to become a mathematician. Because this will allow you to sprinkle in some mumbo-jumbo about prime numbers which will then be taken for some kind of hugely deep meaningful symbolism.
Really, people? This write-by-numbers dreck actually appeals to you? Or did you just give it stars because the author is young and cute? That, at least, I could understand.
This book is formulaic pretentious drivel. My actual rating is closer to zero stars....more
I've tried three times now, and I just cannot make it past the first 60 pages of this book. It's because I know that the author is just waiting to sanI've tried three times now, and I just cannot make it past the first 60 pages of this book. It's because I know that the author is just waiting to sandbag me with that warm and fuzzy, heart-warming message about the redemptive power of reading and literature. But the setup is just too damned creakily trite that I can't even begin to care. The people in this book aren't characters, they're devices for the author to exploit to get that heartwarming message across.
Funny thing, isn't it? When an author's manipulations become too manifestly obvious, it triggers resistance in the reader.
It did in this reader, at any rate. But at least I can move it off my 'currently reading' shelf....more
From the unassailable heights of the MORAL HIGH GROUND, the author manipulates the reader from the very first sentence. Though I have no doubt that atFrom the unassailable heights of the MORAL HIGH GROUND, the author manipulates the reader from the very first sentence. Though I have no doubt that atrocities were committed in El Salvador, it seems entirely probable that this happened on both sides, a complication that this book never even contemplates. I despise this kind of agitprop masquerading as literature, wherein the reader is manipulated to feel badly for not having the appropriate reaction to the author's button-pushing.
If you enjoy being played like a cheap violin, this shameless exercise in emotional manipulation may be for you. If you ask for a little more in your reading, then give it a miss....more
But the worst offender of the last twenty years has to be the uniquely meretricious drivel that constitutes "Angela's Ashes". Dishonest at every levelBut the worst offender of the last twenty years has to be the uniquely meretricious drivel that constitutes "Angela's Ashes". Dishonest at every level, slimeball McCourt managed to parlay his mawkish maunderings to commercial success, presumably because the particular assortment of rainsodden cliches hawked in the book not only dovetails beautifully with the stereotypes lodged in the brain of every American of Irish descent, but also panders to the lummoxes collective need to feel superior because they have managed to transcend their primitive, bog-soaked origins, escaping the grinding poverty imagined in the book, to achieve - what? Spiritual fulfilment in the split-level comfort of a Long Island ranch home? And Frankie the pimp misses not a beat, tailoring his mendacity to warp the portrayal of reality in just the way his audience likes.
No native Irish reader, myself included, has anything but the deepest contempt for this particular exercise in literary prostitution and the cynical weasel responsible for it.
{my apologies to the fine people of Long Island, for the unnecessary vehemence of the implied slur in the above review: clearly it is not meant to be all-encompassing}...more
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