I'm going to tell you something, whoever-is-going-to-read-this-review,
if anybody will be reading this piece of junk that I am writing as I go at all. I'm going to tell you something, and you better believe me because I'm not one to give advice to strangers (unless they're lost on the subway, or wondering where the nearest KFC is. I always know where the nearest KFC is). I don't know how personal or convoluted this might get, but I guess it's what some people say, right? "The important thing is to try"? Never mind that those people are mostly losers, let's forget that for a moment.
Whatever it is that I end up telling you is going to start now, so if you're in dire need of a potty break, I suggest you do it quickly. Some serious feeling-dumping is about to take place here.
I honestly hated this book. For a while there, for who-knows-how-many-pages, I saw reading this pretentious bundle of heavy and colorful pages as a chore. I did. Thinking back to the time when I honestly wanted this book to burst in spontaneous combustion and who gives a damn about the 20 dollars I spent of my hard earned money on this piece of crap?, I can actually understand where all the hatred and deeply rooted annoyance came from.
Really, it makes sense. I hated this book right off the bat and I did so with reason because it wasn't what i expected. I wasn't really sure of what I expected, but it certainly was not this, all these dormant feelings just waiting around the corner to beat me in the head with a shovel, all these run-on sentences that ended up forming something eerily cohesive, all these words and words and more words and where's-this-damn-story-going?
I hated how the main character's - Min's - train of thought were literal train wrecks, I hated how everything was so pretentious and seemingly unreal, I hated the pages and pages and pages of run-on sentences depicting the most trivial, tedious stuff that had me doubting I could even finish what I'd initially dubbed a piece of utterly arrogant crap. In short, I wanted it gagged, tied up, driven to the woods in a shoddy pickup truck and shot dead.
But you see, the freakiest thing is that I didn't. Don't. Hate it, I mean. It's not my favorite book - although it could be, and maybe tomorrow it might, once all the haze that finishing it has got me on is gone. I don't really know what adjectives to attach to this book, because compared to its savvy way with words, nothing that I come up with right now will ever do it justice. What I can say, is that it was a thing of beauty. And that's not an adjective so don't give me that look like I'm pretentiously contradicting myself, thank you very much! But I'm veering off the point here:
This book didn't make me cry. It has, it seems, made lots of people cry, but not me. It did shock me, though. It made me tremble, gasp, and stare at it agape, like some that one idiot who wasn't in on his or hers surprise party. This book made my heart hurt. This book crushed my feelings and handed them back to me in a platter, shrugging when I asked what the hell was I supposed to do with them now, This book made me lots of things but the one I liked the most - the one that stayed with me for as long as it could before I started dramatically PTSD'ing about it like a traumatized grandpa who fought in 'Nam back in the day and has seen it all - was that it made me smile.
As I said, the smile didn't last long - when you're this shocked about something, it's kinda hard to stop your mouth from freezing in a permanent "O". But it was there and it was beautiful and blissful and all those gushy things we see and watch and read about but never really happen to us - to me, at least. It was there and for one brief moment, I didn't want to let this book go. I didn't want to put it back on my shelf - the one it sits in now, still all pretentious-looking and looming over its lesser peers - and have it more than inches away from me. I fought back the overwhelming feeling, obviously, and I did win, kinda-sorta-not-really, but although I am not clutching it with my wishful fingers or staring at its cover like it just whispered dirty and unknown things in my ear, this book is Why I Smiled, an establishing shot of The Idiot Who Made Assumptions That Weren't The Least Bit Right, a whole box filled with insignificant feelings that I now give back to you, person-who-has-probably-not-read-thus-far.
Make what you want of this because I'm done. I am done and I never want to revisit this, not today, not ever, probably tomorrow.
Bernardo