At the end of last weeks' rant about All the Bright Places, I promised a happier post on a happier (and much better) young adult novel.
Eleanor and Park are odd. She's she's artsy by necessity, pulling together whatever clothes she can, making no excuses for the lack of style, condition or fit of her outfits. Her unruly red hair adds to her clown-like looks, as does her chubbiness. Park's a small, Asian kid with few friends. He might be sexually fluid, but at any account, he simply does not fit into the macho boys' club culture at his high school.
They find each other by happenstance and begin a long, drawn out courtship that is pure joy, and sometimes painful to watch unfold. But whether we're cheering them on when they finally speak their first words to one another, or tearing upon learning the awful conditions in which Eleanore lives, these are likeable kids and we want them to be happy. And they want to be happy. That's what this book is about. Two odd kids find each other and work their way to happiness together.
Oh, I know, it all sounds so altruistic and it would have been had Rowell not crafted a novel with a nice rubato rhythm, realistic reversals, and pretty reliable narrators. They're kids, after all, so the reliability is in question at times.
Don't get me wrong, happiness does not pour from these pages. Both Eleanor and Park have issues that, I fear, too many kids face and keep to themselves. I remain saddened that there are so many young adult books like All the Bright Places focusing on suicide....and saddened even more by the fact that the demand for this topic must be high or these book would not exist. Where does resilience come from? What type of fortitude do Eleanor and Park - especially Eleanor - have that make them stronger than the darkness in their lives?
Now that the holiday rush is over, I'll try to blog more regularly. Either we were very busy, or I am becoming increasingly more disorganized, if that's even possible. (Steve, I promise a catch up email soon).
Thanks for stopping by.
