We read to know we’re not alone. We read because we are alone. We read and we are not alone. We are not alone.
My life is in these books. Read these and know my heart.
We are not quite novels.
We are not quite short stories.
In the end, we are collected works.
This is going to be a tough one to talk about for me because it went straight to my favourites shelf and, as this book has stated in not so few words, its always easier to talk about what we hated than what we loved.
In truth, there was some John Green levels of emotional manipulation going on in this novel. The kind where you’re laughing inappropriately over some double entendre about gyms smelling like balls one minute and overcome with painful sobs in the next. It also involved exorbitant levels of pandering to its audience, appealing to our good graces, that can only be classified as cheating.
And honestly I didn’t mind it much.