The fault in our stars: Mining the galaxy!

This is just one more of those instances where I’m going to put you up through a long, tedious write up. But don’t blame me for that. Either John Green or the fictitious Peter Van Houten might have to turn up to take the blame.  However, I am short of any reasons at all, to call The Fault In Our Stars as An Imperial Affliction. Surely, I wouldn’t scratch the Imperial part, but Affliction needs some working. Why not call it ‘An Imperial Affection’? Umm, based on the notion that affection always has attachment clinging on to it, I might be wrong, because the whole story is about not-being-attached, or at least about not-being-desperate. But, I’ll go with it, and take pride in calling it ‘An Imperial Affection’, one that crosses all boundaries and merges into the depths of nature, in facile.

I have watched the movie before I could get my hands on this amazing book. While the movie left me in utter awe, dwarfed and dumbfounded at its genius, the novel was a novel experience. I can’t exactly frame out which parts of the novel have been abridged into the movie, but there were a few lines that were worth a mention, even more, contemplation. (A few lines were fortunately included in the movie too. But there was a lot more gold that was left in the mine, pristine.)

  1. Pain demands to be felt
    Sure thing! Pain draws its victim into its clutches, by feeling it. Its demand for feeling it is so strong that, the moment you start ignoring it; it might only worsen, forcing you to feel it.
    Nonetheless, there’s always a way out, observing the pain.
  2. I was left on the shore with the waves washing over me, unable to drown.
    This had me thinking, for at least an hour. Not much of a revelation, but something I have never cared to project. Poets and writers have written about the joy of having the waves soar and recede OR the violence associated with the sea waves. Yet, not a lot of them have cared to demarcate the borders between being washed over and drowning. Green had an amazing context in his plot, to plant this beautiful sentence.
  3. The dead are visible only in the terrible lidless eyes of memory.
    ‘Lidless’ struck to me as an excellent metaphor here. Memory looks at things without a filter, right? 😉 Memory is unbiased, forever exposed to the gray and yellow of the past.
    And the dead, we often avoid to think about them. Yet, the no-filter-sight-of-memory brings to us the deeds of the dead. While the bodies are buried, the souls are resurrected time and again, along the memory lane.
  4. I was living with cancer, never dying of it.
    Need I explain? The most chivalrous wars are fought with spirit, not weapons.
  5. It’s hard as hell to hold on to your dignity when the risen sun is too bright in your losing eyes.
    Metaphors are just lurking behind the veil of beauty that drapes this particular sentence.
    As the dawn breaks into the dark ambience of your room, the rising sun might be a threat to your losing eyes. After all, dignity needs to arouse the warrior in her, to fight for its survival, in the light of dawn.
  6. Like all the innumerable dead, he was demoted from haunted to haunter.
    No subtler way to hint the aftermath of bereavement, than this. He, who was haunted by the past and many other events that shaped him into what he has become, might one day embrace death. And after embracing, he might become the haunter, an affliction. He might be someone else’s past. His loss might be an event that shapes someone else. Hence, Haunted-to-Haunter.
  7. Funerals, I decided, are for the living.
    No comments. You got to read the plot to get into skin of this line.
  8. So dawn goes down to day, nothing gold can stay.
    Time and tide wait for none, not even gold. Oblivion, a curse, at least in the most cases.
    Or may be it isn’t. May be, “If the inevitability of human oblivion worries you, I encourage you to ignore it. God knows that’s what everyone else does.” Or “Oblivion is universal and inevitable. The problem is not suffering or oblivion, but the depraved meaninglessness of these things, the absolutely inhuman nihilism of suffering.” (I’ve been quoting Hazel Grace here. I wouldn’t have been able to put it in better words.)
  9. Grief doesn’t change you, it reveals you.
    Grief is brief. Only its aftermath lasts long. It just strikes as a tide at the need of the hour, when you have grown oblivious to all that YOU were made up of. It doesn’t change you into someone you’ve never known, rather unveils the disguises you have involuntarily made over yourself, to reveal the YOU that you have long forgotten.
  10. At a height, the ocean seemed a great and endless monolith.
    While the ocean generally reminds me of its tides, there are often times when it resembles a vast expanse of sheer silence, and a personified resilience. Times like these, when I have transcended its ticks and tides, I fly in the air. In my flight, the ocean is but an endless monolith, serene, engulfed in solace.
  11. You could hear the wind in the leaves.
    An exercise for you, to unveil the metaphors and allegories.
  12. The marks humans leave, are most often scars.
    I’ll try my best, to leave as few scars as possible. And more smiles.
    I’ll try to walk light, so my trails won’t divulge the scars beneath.
  13. My thoughts are stars I couldn’t fathom into constellations.
    What a genuine way to say “I think, but I can’t make a lot out of it. And it sucks!”
    Galaxies thrive in my mind, and I couldn’t make the constellations. Only black holes.
  14. We’re as likely to hurt the universe as we’re to help it, and we’re not likely to do either.
    Disclaimer: Any attempts to describe this sentence will result in robbing its lustre.
  15. She was loved deeply and not widely.
    It doesn’t matter how many of them love me, how much of them loves me does matter.
  16. The real heroes aren’t the ones doing things. The real heroes are who notice things, paying attention.
    Staying witness to what you are, and the people (even better, the world) around you, isn’t despondency, or arrogance, or a lack of compassion, it is a liberty… a liberty from the nuances and shades of life. This isn’t the kind of liberty that lets you out of the shackles of life, but liberty of the kind that lets you live it, to the fullest.
  17. You don’t have to choose if you get hurt in this world, but you do have some say in who hurts you.
    After all, I could choose my afflictions. Scars are inevitable, after all. At least, it’s good to be bestowed the liberty to chose the scar-ers.

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