A book has recently come into my life that has suddenly become the meaning of my very existence. No sarcasm or anything. I am telling you this from the bottom of my heart.
This book is called The Fault In Our Stars by a man called John Green.
I read it because I was at Barnes and Noble with my friend, scoping out the YA section and making fun of Vampire Books, and this lady who works there came up and told us that The Fault in Our Stars, the little blue hardback on the shelf with the fake handwritten title, was honestly, like, the absolute bestest book ever.
Well I have read it. I have scientifically tested this claim. This book ranks on a scale of one to ten over nine thousand. This book was without any doubt the very best book I have ever read. I used to think it was Slaughterhouse Five. Slaughterhouse Five pales in comparison.
If I could say one thing, and have it read by the entire world, it would not be “Love is all you need,” or “Peace, not war.” It would be “Read the Fault in Our Stars by John Green.” Like, my whole metaphysical structure has been broken down and built back up since I got it at the library approximately 24 hours ago.
And I almost felt, in the inner corner of my eye where the tear ducts reside, a tear beginning to form as I read (and re-read) the saddest, rawest, most truthful chapter ever.
The characters are so real and not what you would expect in “a book about cancer.”