The fault in Our Stars

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green
Raw.
It's a word I admittedly overuse when i find a piece of literature that is, in fact, not over processed, overly pretentious or trying too hard - as books an do. The fault in Our Stars -which I finally succumbed to reading after much hype by blogging fans for ages - is raw in a very poignant way. The fault in our stars is certainly romantic, and in it's romance dances into the idealistic forms of love - I won't spoil it for potential readers, but there's a level of convenience inherent in the way romantic love plays out within the novel - but it does generally keep itself honest and real. Hazel Grace, our 16 year old main character, is a thoughtful, interesting - odd - but very much teenager main character. While her cancer makes her whole unique from your average teen, Green does a great job of exemplifying that she is, in turn, just as teenagerly, and just as much the same as any other non cancer inflicted individual. We are all human, finite, and experience pain and loss.
But the depth and clarity with which Green address cancer - the "suckyness" of it, the agony that really isn't brave, but breaking and sad - not tragic or poetic - just sad, adds so much merit to the tale.

While there are moments where Green pulls aspects of the 'cancer story' he is careful to tell Hazel's story - and individual tale of a young girl who happens to have a fatal disease, rather than the story of Cancer, featuring Hazel Grace. The novel itself focusing around this distinction, determined to illuminate the humanity and normalcy of people while at the same time taking nothing away from the sheer unfair awfulness that is growing up with Cancer. Hazel is real, she is 'raw' and she is likeable, even in her sometimes depressing realism. The reader immediately grows to like her, is invested, and I myself found the novel an exceptionally quick read.

A well written story of friendship and love, sickness, fatality and the coming to terms with the fact that we all, one day, must die. And while we may have but a short time together, that time - those moments, can be infinite.

Pigeon English

Stephen Kelman's debut novel Pigeon English is a raw and real look into inner-city London's dark daily life. Narrated by the profound Harrison Opoku - an eleven year old boy recently emigrated from Ghana, Pigeon English reveals the depth of violence and twisted justice which so quickly becomes apparent in the London youth. 

Following the death of a fellow youth and student - a bloody and seemingly meaningless stabbing - Harrison and his friend Derek take on a vague sense of duty an begin investigative reports on the scene. In their simplified childish way, they set up watch, interrogate suspects and look for clues and evidence. 

Though the novel holds aspects of crime scene investigation, it is in no means a Murder Mystery by genre. Instead, through these investigations, Kelman reveals the beauty of a young boys mind, and the simple honesty with which he lives his life. Both gentle and loving in his displays of caring for the pigeon which lands on his balcony one day, Harrison is an expressly loveable character whose affection and protective nature for his little sister Agnes (residing in Ghana with their father) is both inspiring and heart warming. 
"I pretended like all the oranges rolling everywhere were her happy memories and they were looking for a new person to stick to so they didn't get wasted.”

 In contrast,  the youth's desire for destruction, brutality and violence, and Harri's own fascination with the local gang, reveal the intensity of youth and the ease with which they as a society can slip into such immense horror and destruction: "Killa got a screwdriver out of his pant. I saw it with my own two eyes... I could even see the killing thoughts in the air, they were sticking to us like crazy moths after thunder. They wanted to kill us, you could tell." Through these dichotomous emotions Kelman weaves the intricate tapestry of emotions which drive youth culture. 

The voice through which the story is told - most predominantly that of Harri, is honest and real, and often times simple - childish excitability certainly comes though - but with a profound depth and beauty which transcends all age and circumstance. 
His analysis of people, is so childishly simple that it reveals truth so often missed by adult mindsets. In his observation of Mr Frimpong, Harrison reveals the pureness of his heart: 

“Mr. Frimpong is the oldest person from church. That's when I knew why he sings louder than anybody else: it's because he's been waiting the longest for God to answer. He thinks God has forgotten him. I only knew it then. Then I loved him but it was too late to go back.” 

This passage also reveals a reoccurring theme within the novel and specifically within Harrison of a fascination with death. The memory and 'spirit' of "The Dead Boy" permeates and presides over the story, weaving its way in and out of day to day chores, guilty looks, and moments of personal triumph. Harrison is fixated on his memory - a boy he wasn't particularly close with - and continually dedicates his moments of happiness to the boy's memory or spirit. 

In the same way, gang members and bully figures are forever fixed on death and revenge, carving death threats in apartment doors and chanting for blood during street fights. There is an animalistic quality alive in each youth and each person which Kelman carefully explores within the confines of brutal gang culture, forcing it to collide with innocent hearts and pure minds in a violent clash of interaction and emotion.

A turbulent and reflective novel, Pigeon English uses the simplicity of style and heart to pierce the heart of the reader even as it drags them into a world of shockingly hardened young criminals perpetuating the dark inner-city life of London. 
Funny, sickening and triumphant, Stephen Kelman's debut is a fine example of voice and heart in a plot-driven, increasingly sic-fi literary world.  

The Book Thief

The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak appeared mysteriously on my bookshelf one day. I believe it's been sitting there for a while, sorted into the pile of 'novels that do not belong to me' (which primarily hosts books borrowed from my big sister). This, however, appeared on its own.

Rather fitting really, now having read the tale of book thievery, that it should have ended up in my procession as a gift I recently took it down off the shelf to read. I read The Book Thief without knowing anything at all about it. I enjoy reading books that way, it adds to the story without predetermined context or assumptions about the content, and the Book Thief was for me, then, a complete surprise.

A powerful, sorrowful tale of death, destruction, and inevitable dismay, the Book Thief is a curious tale of a unique young girl, and an even more intriguing speaker. Though the narrator is never literally named, it becomes quickly apparent to the reader that the speaker is indeed, the voice of Death - a personification that is both supernatural, but of seemingly human-like form, "You want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue." Death is both expressly inhuman, and yet very much a part of who we are, in it's own perspective, becoming both beyond ourselves, beyond human, and inherently sympathetic as it feels and comprehends hope, sadness, defeat, and most often, fatigue. 

Set in Germany in the second World War, Death is not only a fitting, but a challenging narrator which provides not only insight into the depth of destruction obviously apparent at the time, but a level of individuality as the voice touches on single stories within the ever present context of death. 

Though it could technically be categorize as War literature, or even historical fiction, the Book Thief was unlike any other wartime or holocaust themed novel I had previously read, the focus of the novel so very much on the girl, Leisel, rather than the war itself. Of course, the thoughts and consequences of war were ever present throughout the novel, but they arose as just that - consequences - which moved and shaped the daily activities and lives of the characters within. Leisel felt the sting of war every day, and the reign of Nazi Germany, the omnipresent ruling, was a foreboding darkness over the city and nation. It was through her story that the pain of the war years is made real to the reader, not as a statistic, or a horror story of holocaust victim, but rather through the tale of a loss of innocence and privilege, a loss of comfort and home, and eventually, the simple loss of life. Because Leisel's tale is such a simple one, such a basic one, in essence, it allows the reader to connect and latch their emotions to that of the young girl all the more strongly as she stumbles her way through life and onto Himmel St. 

Death, itself, takes care of the bigger picture. Through simple tales of mass murders and bombings, concentration camps and executions, told from the other side, Death is able to turn the stories from unfathomably horrific, to poignantly tragic - a subtle change which allows readers who have in all likelihood been bombarded with History texts books in school years, to view the deadly acts of world War Two in a new, more personal light. A calm, but sorrowful one. Death does not talk of the bloodlust in the killer's eyes, or the long nights of suffering, but of gently scooping up the souls of the dying humans, whether one by one and slowly, as the victims starve in their beds, mercifully and lightly, as escaping Jews fall to their death over rocky cliffs - dying mid fall, or  of collecting them all at once and in large batches, sifting the souls out of the deadly smoke that rose out of the killing showers of concentration camps. All horrific, all deaths, but all told from a caring, but calm voice who lifts them each out of their bodies, and carries them skyward.  

Using the voice of death provides a unique perspective not only on dying, but on loss and being left behind: "I witness the ones that are left behind, crumbled among the jigsaw puzzles of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs". For death, the dying brings relief, whether the dead realize it immediately or not, and it is those left that become the victims, broken by the incomprehension of separation.

The novel, then, centres around not only the inevitable sense of loss and destruction, but on friendship, and the bonds of those fated to live through such times. Introducing the childhood best friend connection with Rudy, Leisel is able to experience, in many ways, a normal relation with her neighbour and soon best friend. It is this bond, the ever growing friendship that exists both despite and because of the environment within which the characters live, that allows the reader a sense of hope and a connection to the story, as the reader invests in the child antics and relations. The friendship, like all those in the novel, is complicated by circumstance, and though street soccer games and playground fights are central, bonds are formed through the stealing of apples - a necessity for the near-starving children, rather than a game of fun - and bonds of mutual longing, as both children experience what it is to have their father figures sent to war. 

Likewise, Leisel's relationship with her Papa and Mama both mirrors that of a child with their parent, but is given further depth by the sheer fact that neither are Leisel's biological parent. Learning to form a connection of extreme love and devotion, the three characters quickly become a bonded family, their love extending past factual family and becoming one knit together by love, loss and circumstance, just as Max is integrated into their hearts in much the same way. 

Providing a window into the life of a Jew in Nazi Germany, Max becomes not only a friend but a liability. A constant balance between a fugitive and a brother, the threads of Max's friendship with Leisel are woven through not only a sense of family and justice, but over an attendance to Hitler Youth, around the loss of her own brother, and through the not only impractical but the forbidden nature of such a bond. It is not only love that holds these characters together, but the reoccurring theme throughout the novel of Words. 

Words, as any reader will know, are an extremely powerful tool. Both a weapon and a form of reconciliation, or comfort, words can connect and severe ties, and infiltrate minds. Words are the birthplace of so many actions, and so much of the movements of Nazi Germany. And Leisel herself writes after reflecting upon both her habit of book stealing and of writing, "I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right."

The Book Thief itself uses words in much the same way, highlighting and pushing them, contorting them to depict both the good and the bad, as well as highlighting the consequences of words, both said and unsaid, and their effect on those on which who's ears they fall. From simple spelling lessons, to a book which Death itself carries in its pocket, literature and language (spoken and written) is shown for what it truly is - a power and weapon beyond understanding which can shape the minds of followers, and a hope on which to cling to, when all else falls. 

It is with a unique voice and brilliantly executed perspective - that of the character and narrator of Death - that Zuszak sheds light on the dark times of Germany in war, and reawakens an emotional connection between reader and characters, refreshing what has become numb and desensitized in a violence-based society.