I wish someone could bottle you up, so that each person in the world could have a little bit of you. (Okay, mOh, Augustus Waters.
I wish you were real.
I wish someone could bottle you up, so that each person in the world could have a little bit of you. (Okay, maybe not bottling you up, per se, but your essence, maybe...but only because bottling you up would not only be cruel but gross. And you're not real, so it would be impossible.)
But if you were real, then you would be pretty close to perfect.
You are absolutely yummy (your words), infinitely interesting, grotesquely irreverent (which makes you even yummier despite your 1.4 legs), and just so darned multidimensional that if it were possible, I'd want to travel the multiverses just to get a chance to meet you. And maybe hang out for a day...or an afternoon. Heck, even an hour, even if it were in the Literal Heart of Jesus.
Is it wrong that I like you so much?
Is it? Because it doesn't feel wrong.
I have no idea how Hazel held out for as long as she did, but thank goodness that girl came to her senses. Because you are, quite intolerably, just plain wonderful.
Why?
Because you did more in your short (fictional) life than most (real) people ever do...or try.
Because you look at life, at the universe, and you thumb your nose at it, with a smirk. I wish I could do that, instead of getting bogged down by...everything.
Because you put into words your fear of oblivion, so succinctly, so simply, that I teared up when you first uttered those words. That most everyone has that fear is a given. But very few could even string together the right words to voice that fear, much less share it with the world at large and make it mean something. So bravo to you, Augustus Waters (and by default, you, John Green, as well). Bravo.
Oh, how I wish you were real, because...
Well, because we'd all be just a smidgeon better for having known you. For having had the chance to catch a twinkle or two of your starlight.
Oh, this was so beautiful. Beautiful and painful. Painful and real. Real, so real, it left my insides raw.
I had a difficult time with the beginning. NOh, this was so beautiful. Beautiful and painful. Painful and real. Real, so real, it left my insides raw.
I had a difficult time with the beginning. Not because it was unreadable, not well-written or hard to muddle through. On the contrary, it was a well-written book, evenly paced. The child-speak didn't bother me (I know it bothered some readers). I really couldn't find anything wrong with the book, technically.
No, I found it difficult because I was feeling too much and I didn't want to get too entangled in the story, in the characters.
After all, this was a story that was meant to be disturbing. It is not a subject matter many people are comfortable with. And yet...
And yet I felt so attuned to Jack, from the very beginning, that it hurt to go on. I didn't want him to hurt or be scared. I didn't want him to worry, didn't want him cold or hungry. I didn't want him sleeping in a wardrobe. Didn't want him obsessively counting each time Old Nick came by.
The problem was that Jack had become real, for me. And his fears, his life, his needs made me uncomfortable. That's why it was difficult.
For certain books, as a reader, it is inevitable that at some point, you will insinuate yourself into the story. You recognize part of yourself in a character (or three). You identify with one or two or a few, see things from their perspective, feel things even though it's not your story, not your journey.
And when you can lose yourself in a story like that, lose yourself in a character, that's when a book and its narrative truly succeeds. But it's not always easy.
I don't want to give too much away because I don't want to take away from other readers' experience. I will say this, however: as I kept reading, I realized I had created two distinct time frames for the events in the story. Before The Plan (BP) and After The Plan (AP).
I found things more heartbreaking BP. And while the heartbreak is still there AP, it was more heartwarming also.
Five things that hit me, BP: - the wonder in seeing and hearing everything from a five year old's perspective - the joys of empty cans, tissue paper rolls, five crayons and a child's limitless imagination - the strength a mother achieves to keep her child whole and alive - the strength of a child who only wants to please his mother - this is a twisted, cruel, ugly, beautiful, complex world we live in
Five things that hit me, AP: - how terrifying real reality can be - yes, it is possible to go through childhood without Legos! - Steppa and crocs - how resilient children are, when adults around them are falling, failing, flailing - how twisted, cruel, ugly, beautiful and complex people are
I wasn't a huge fan of Emma Donoghue's Slammerkin, but after Room, I'm certainly a fan now....more
I'm a sucker for the kinds of stories that are, on the surface, idyllic, but with a little bit more digging, are really disturbing and/or heartbreakinI'm a sucker for the kinds of stories that are, on the surface, idyllic, but with a little bit more digging, are really disturbing and/or heartbreaking. Especially when kids and/or animals are involved. Stories like those in Radio Flyer, Shiloh or Bastard Out of Carolina, among many others.
I don't read/watch these kinds of books/movies often, usually because it makes me uncomfortable, and mostly because I just don't like going there. I'm not a fan of seeing kids and animals hurt. In spite of this discomfort however, I'm drawn to them. In the cases of the movies I mentioned above, I was always aware of them. I would see the ads, read the reviews, watch the previews or listen to other people talking about them. I knew I desperately wanted to see them but I almost always waited months (or even years) after they came out. But once I rented the video, that was it. I was committed to it wholeheartedly, allowing myself to be drawn into the early "happy", Arcadian phase, knowing full well that at any moment, something violent, something earth-shattering was going to happen that would turn that bucolic world into a nightmare. That at some point, that kid or puppy who'd tugged at my heartstrings would undergo some horrible experience that would set my mind and pulse racing, and I would sit there, aghast, just waiting for it to end, waiting for the inevitable escape or the death to happen, all the while wondering how adults could be so blind and so...powerless.
Sure, I've read (and enjoyed) stories that are all about brutality to and by kids. I've read and enjoyed The Hunger Games, Lord of the Flies and Ender's Game, but these books didn't hide the abuse, didn't hide the cruelty. If anything, the darkness---the abuse of and by children---is integral and central to the narrative. In these cases, the novels' notoriety was specifically borne out of that darkness.
I guess this was what I was expecting with Jeanette Walls' The Silver Star. I'm not sure why I thought it would be closer to Bastard Out of Carolina, but it wasn't. Don't get me wrong. I really enjoyed this book -- the narrator, Bean, is funny, smart, engaging, ballsy and adorable. And she's strong as anything. Her idolization of Liz, her older sister, is palpable and apparent from the very first line: "My sister saved my life when I was a baby." Liz was her sister, but because they had an unstable, irresponsible, flighty mother, Liz filled that maternal role as well, and one of her main responsibilities was taking care of Bean.
So from the outset, Walls establishes that whatever misery, whatever heartbreak was going to happen would be happening to Liz. Liz was Bean's hero, her guardian, her champion. Bean was a spectator, the younger sister, unable to do much. And that would have been an awesome tale to tell: how, in the face of adversity, two sisters would go through all these trials together, and the younger, weaker one would turn out to be the stronger, would turn the tables and protect the older.
Well, that happened. Sorta.
I guess this is what frustrated me with the book. Walls built such an idyllic world in the beginning---I loved Bean's and Liz's world, the language they shared, their distinct worldview, their survival skills. I loved that they took care of each other, that they knew how to take care of each other after their mother left them. And I loved their Uncle Tinsley---but when she tried to break that world down and introduce the Big Bad, she washed out.
Largely because the Big Bad...well, the Big Bad just wasn't bad enough.
I can't believe I'm complaining about this, but I suppose I expected something worse to happen. I wanted something consequential, something more substantial to happen to Liz. In my mind, Liz's breakdown was understandable, but it felt forced, it felt contrived. It just didn't fit what happened to her especially after she got out of what could've been a horrible situation relatively unscathed. For a character who, earlier in the story, dealt with an unstable absentee mother, who took on more mature problems while caring for her baby sister, what happened to Liz later in Byler seemed fairly inconsequential to make her spiral downwards so quickly and so completely. It made her seem weak, so much weaker than how she'd initially been drawn. It was so incongruous, so out of whack, with how Walls had initially developed her that honestly, Liz's breakdown was such a let-down.
Still, I enjoyed the novel. I breezed through the book, largely because I loved Bean and her newly discovered family: Tinsley and all the Wyatts. I enjoyed watching Bean come into her own. I laughed and cheered her on as she found a place where, while not quite belonging, she was able to carve out a niche for herself. And I was right up there with her when she told her mom to vamoose. These were the parts of the story I enjoyed. Had the Liz part been meatier, been more realistic, I would have easily given this 4-stars. ...more
I've waffled between a 1-star and a 2 for the last two days, and I still haven't made up my mind, really.
This was just so absolutely trashtastic, evenI've waffled between a 1-star and a 2 for the last two days, and I still haven't made up my mind, really.
This was just so absolutely trashtastic, even more so than Fifty Shades of Grey, and I really didn't think anything could be trashier than that series. Well, color me wrong, because this series is just about perfect, as far as trashy novels go.
It's got everything: incest. Rape. Torture. Evil grandmothers. Evil mothers. Twins who don't grow. An attic jail. A freaking swan bed, with its own swan bed. Illicit love. Blue Lagoon-type sexual awakenings. Poison. A cute little mouse.
I felt like I was held down in a chair, bound hand and foot, gagged, with those nasty eye things from Clockwork Orange in place, forcing me to watch a train wreck. I just couldn't stay away---I just couldn't!---even though I had to put it down every so often, just to give myself some room. I know: it reminded me of the train wreck that is Miley Cyrus.
But each day, FITA just kept calling out to me: "Don't you want to know what comes next?"
"Don't you want to know how often Cathy'll parade her nubile body in front of her brother?"
"Don't you want to know how her grandmother will torture her and her siblings next?"
"Surely you can't stop there! The mom just showed up!"
"Chris and Cathy just kissed! OMG!"
"If Chris and Cathy are outside on the roof, why don't they just escape?"
And so on and so forth. I think FITA is the equivalent of Lay's potato chips, without the calories. It should come with a warning though: there is a high potential for developing a series of very unpleasant tics while reading!
Oh, it was so cringe-inducing.
And there were belly laughs galore (and not in a good way).
I am so ashamed to admit this, but I'm reading the second one. And then I need to stop. Because I'm killing brain cells here!...more