Even though I have not watched the movie *yet*, but over the past weekend after finishing John Green’s “The Fault in Our Stars,” I LOVED IT so much because it touched on the topic of life’s fragility in such a delicate and exquisite manner it brought tears to my eyes.
Falling sick is possibly everyone’s greatest fear and in one way or another, we can all relate to the contents of the book for we would have experienced it ourselves or witnessed our loved ones being ill, and it always hurts us to see them battling helplessly on the hospital bed.
“The Fault in Our Stars” is a cross between a teenage love story and terminally ill-existentialism narrative, a combination is that bound to melt hearts and minds. For me, the letter below is one of the most beautiful parts of the book and it would surely be a shame if I did not share it with everyone.
Dear Mr. Waters,
I am in receipts of your electronic mail dated the 14th of April and duly impressed by the Shakespearean complexity of your tragedy.
Everyone in this tale has a rock-solid hamartia: hers, that she is so sick; yours, that you are so well. Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/But in ourselves.” Easy enough to say when you’re a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars.
While we’re on the topic of old Will’s insufficiencies, your writing about young Hazel reminds me of Bard’s Fifty-fifth sonnet, which of course begins, “Not marble, nor the gilded monuments/Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;/But you shall shine more bright in these contents/Than unswept stone, besmear’d with sluttish time.” (Off topic, but: What a slut time is. She screws everybody.) It’s a fine poem but a deceitful one: We do indeed remember Shakespeare’s powerful rhyme, but what do we remember about the person it commemorates? Nothing. We’re pretty sure he was male; everything else is guesswork. Shakespeare told us precious little of the man whom he entombed in his linguistic sarcophagus. (Witness also that when we talk about literature, we do so in the present tense. When we speak of the dead, we are not so kind.) You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect. (Full disclosure: I am not the first to make this observation. cf, the MacLeish poem “Not Marble, Nor the Gilded Monuments,” which contains the heroic line “I shall say you will die and none will remember you.”)
I digress, but here’s the rub: The dead are visible only in the terrible lidless eye of memory. The living, thank heaven, retain the ability to surprise and to disappoint. Your Hazel is alive, Waters, and you mustn’t impose your will upon another’s decision, particularly a decision arrived at thoughtfully. She wishes to spare you pain, and you should let her. You may not find young Hazel’s logic persuasive, but I have trod through this vale of tears longer than you, and from where I’m sitting, she’s not the lunatic.
Peter Van Houten
Signing off this post with the “The Fault in Our Stars” movie soundtrack by Ed Sheeran, just because this song is the perfect accompaniment to the book.