Because I took the time today to re-examine my grad school requirements, I discovered that I registered for the wrong GRE exam. D’oh! I can’t believe I did that, and I’m INCREDIBLY embarrassed about it. I guess it only serves, right, that I think I’m incredibly smart and applying to grad school, and here I go register for an expensive test and pick the wrong one.
Today I finished reading The Fault in Our Stars by John Green.
The book was beautifully written: Green manages to write from the point of view of a dying teenage girl with grace and style. As I was reading it, I felt like I was reading a blog or a real-time diary of someone who actually existed. It’s rare that I (as a reader) ever doubt the reality of a well-written novel, but Hazel’s witty comments and sometimes honest-or-defeatist opinions really came across as completely genuine.
It might just be because I choose to spend my time reading books about talking magic unicorns, of course, but Green’s novel struck me in a way that words haven’t in a very long time. As I finished the book on the bus, I cried. I couldn’t help myself, and could barely get myself to put the book down (even though I could no longer see the words on the page through my eyelashes) to wipe my face, clear my contacts, and continue reading. This is only the second time I have ever cried from reading a book (The first time was a selection from “World Without End” by Helen Thomas), and good lord, now I have to read Green’s other works. And I’m the person who avoids sappy/romantic novels and films. What on earth have I gotten myself into?
I hope they don’t make me cry. But I kind of do.