John Green is an asshole. Not the bad kind of asshole, but an asshole nonetheless.
For two books he gave me the bliss the romantic-comedy-fan in me craves for. In fact, he generously indulged me with Alaska‘s pure wit and Hazel and Gus’s okay flirting. Then all of a sudden, true to being an asshole, he dumped me into oblivion by giving me tragedies that it took me several days to recover to. Green is an asshole, he is.
SPOILER ALERT AFTER THE GAP! Be Warned.
I just finished reading The Fault in our Stars and I found myself dreaming of Augustus Waters , the kind of lover I know I would want but I would not be able to get. Hot and attractive yet he is philosophical and witty. This is the perfect guy I would want to have and Green had generously indulged me with Gus and then all of a sudden, he dropped the bomb and took him away! Just as how Mags’ image lingered in my head, Augustus haunted me in my sleep.
Masochism– that is what it is to describe reading John Green. By the time Gus fell very very sick, I found it hard to move forward with the book. It pains me to vividly picture this very hot attractive boy dying every second, every word. It pains me to see this guy who I have flirted to fading into nothingness. Imagine a dagger slashing my chest every time Green describes how cancer gnaws every part of Gus. And then finally he died, Hazel found that letter and the book ended. The pain the last five chapters had given me is a joy to read, I must admit– and that is where the masochism comes to play. I am tempted to read the book all over again yet I am afraid of another series of pain that I might experience.
I am hating him for abruptly killing characters, but I cannot hate him for his genius. I really don’t know, but I think Green has awakened my latent masochistic self.
But nonetheless, John Green is an asshole and is book is not for the weak of heart.