Sometimes, the universe has a funny way of bringing things together. It’s the premise of every movie involving a car crash — and it’s how I ended up reading John Green. I had watched hundreds of Youtube videos of him explaining the history of the world, eyerolling every time he started talking about “his books”, thinking that this guy must be a pretty poor writer if he needed a Youtube history channel to promote his novels, yet somehow failing to realize his book is lying right next to me and it is friggin’ awesome.
So you could say that that book – The Fault in our Stars – is my Amores Perros, my Crash, my Thelma and Louise (or wait, no, that one’s an entirely different car crash).
Go read it. Even if it’s about fifteen year-olds with cancer, has no violence and features the worst kind of Americans in the world: The ones visiting Amsterdam. I know there is no possible pitch that will make you voluntarily read this book – but if the mind control powers I got by achieving rank 7 at my scientology meetings work, that should be no problem.