On Books and The Fault In Our Stars

     I've been reading quite a few books lately. I'm working my way through the Search For Significance (A wonderful choice, thanks Ashley), which has been wonderfully helpful. (That is a discussion for a much more solemn post). I just finished the second to last book in a series that deal with the question, "If all of the extraordinary minds (People like Tolkien, Verne, Poe, Tesla, Richard Burton) from the past gathered together in one room in an imaginary world, what would happen?" Short answer: Mayhem, murder, the end of the world, war, death, and some very witty humor. It makes quite an interesting read. But as nothing could ever be simple with that many deep thinkers trying to work together, the series is so confusing I'm going to have to re-read the entire thing.
     I've also been catching up on my history with a little of Stevenson's Kidnapped, an excellent book that doesn't receive as much notice as it should. Come on. Who wouldn't like pirates, swashbuckling, and flight through the Scottish highlands with a somewhat crazy (If they ever remake the movie, David Tennant should play Alan) Scotsman? Why Treasure Island got more notice that Kidnapped I'll never know.
      There are probably more, lying on the floor of my bedroom waiting to be noticed, but I'll skip to the last one. The Fault In Our Stars. As you might know, this book is making something of a tidal wave in the teen community right now. People rave about it--it's humor and pathos, warmth and darkness--but I think if you stripped away the pretty words and fun, lovable characters, you'd find something a little less pleasing to read.
       John Green's words are soaked in a kind of bravado, that even though life is pointless and we are all just "side-effects" on a randomly spinning globe, we (humans) face death and refuse to sink into nothing. Not bravely, but at least with more attention on living than dying. Now, I'm only six chapters into the book, so any assumptions I make are likely to be blown to bits by the end. But I think I'm right in one thing--John Green is an incredibly skilled writer--so skilled that his opinion seeps off the pages and onto you without realizing what he's saying. He writes with such eloquence that the concepts he presents are pleasing to agree with, even if you actually don't. Impressions are so easy to come by.
       Now, I don't believe in a pointless existence, but it was only due to the comments made by my friend that kept me from accepting what Mr. Green said.
       It's a little scary, when you think about it. If I, who thought myself sceptical enough to disagree with an opposite worldview, really wanted to agree with Mr. Green, how many other books have I, or you, read and absorbed that distracted from truth?

Food for thought.