“One thing I’ve learned about people is that the easiest way to get them to like you is to shut up and let them do the talking. Everyone likes to talk about themselves.” -- Jesse Andrews, Me and Earl and the Dying Girl
WARNING: MILD SPOILERS AHEAD
DISCLAIMER: This review is, first
and foremost, constructed upon my personal reaction to the book. I can’t
forecast whether or not you, reading this, will like it yourself; I’m quite
terrible at recommendations because I always assume that people will like
everything I like. If you decide to read this book because of this review and
end up not enjoying it, I humbly apologise. If
after reading this review you come to my home and brutally murder me, I do not
blame you. (Look at me, quoting the book in the foreword!) Please don’t get your hopes up if you think they might be let
down. I think the book is great, but also that it has fatal flaws. A lot of
people will disagree with me on that. So it goes.
This review was in-part inspired by marinashutup's feminist review on her YouTube channel.
AN OPEN LETTER TO JESSE ANDREWS
I recently read your debut novel, Me and Earl and the Dying Girl, in preparation for its so-far
well-received film adaption released this winter (that’s summer for you). What
can I say? I loved it. It’s punchy, it’s cynical, it’s a cancer book without
being a cancer book – and in a world ravaged by the Love-Interest-Has-Terminal-Cancer
sub-genre of contemporary YA, a unique cancer book really is a blessing in the
making. (I still love you, TFiOS.
Don’t worry. I always will.) For all you unfamiliar readers out there, here’s a
rundown: Greg Gaines is contemptuous but inconspicuous, a dorky but
under-the-radar senior whose life, perfectly balanced between every social
circle his neatly-divided high school consists of, is disrupted when his
well-meaning mother guilt-trips him into befriending Rachel, an old
sorta-friend who was recently diagnosed with fast-progressing leukaemia.
Accompanied by another sorta-friend named Earl, Greg decides to make Rachel a
film – he and Earl are amateur filmmakers, after all – and regrets this
decision immediately.
Sounds fun, yeah? You’re damn right, it is. I didn’t know
what to expect when I started your book, Mr. Andrews, but I adored it right
from the get-go. My favourite thing about it? It’s hilarious. Like, legitimate ROFLMAO hilarious. I don’t think I’ve
ever laughed out loud while reading a book as many times as I did while reading
Me and Earl and the Dying Girl,
because I don’t think I’ve ever found a book so incredibly funny. Sure, I may
have a weird sense of humour – my idea of a good joke is a sentence without any
punctuation – and this may be clouding my judgement, but it’s not only mildly
amusing punctuation misdemeanours that make Me
and Earl and the Dying Girl so entertaining. It’s Greg’s sharp, sarcastic
wit. It’s his interactions with his friends, his family, and his sorta-friends-but-more-like-acquaintances-but-I-would-probably-die-for-you-bro.
It’s how he deals with problems and confrontation. (Just as I would: by running
away, or, alternatively, hiding in bed and screaming into The Void. You’ve got
my number, Jesse Andrews.) I also found this book oddly inspiring, despite its
obnoxiously disillusioned protagonist and unabashedly depressing premise, and
for that, Mr. Andrews, I commend you. I admired your ability to write a cancer
book where the lead doesn’t fall for the sick kid, to address cancer as a really shitty disease as opposed to a
chance to discover yourself, the world, and your sexual boundaries (again:
still love you, TFiOS. You’re the
bae), to capture genuinely the screwball of emotion and confusion and hurt and
uncertainty and above all, displacement that death and all its friends (not a
spoiler; just a metaphor) spreads through us, weaving their tendrils between
our ribs and choking out our lungs until we can no longer breathe. I don’t know
if you can tell, Mr. Andrews, but I really
liked your book. It made me laugh, it made me feel all the feelings, it
made me wish I didn’t have a life so I didn’t have to put it down; I wanted
more than anything to give it 5 stars out of 5, because in my opinion, it
deserved it.
However – and it pains me to say this, because I really liked your book – I’ve got a bone
to pick with you. Tell me, Jesse – and I ask this as a friend, not a foe – do
you believe what Earl had to say about bisexual people? As I’m sure you recall,
in one passage roughly two-thirds of the way through the book, Earl attempts to
cheer Greg up by engaging him in a soliloquy about how weird bisexual people
are. “I been thinking about it,” he says, “and how the fuck can somebody call
theyself a bisexual… That don’t make
no goddamn sense.” He then goes on to
incorrectly typify bisexual people as being turned on by anything – that’s pansexual
people, and only if you’re using the incredibly generalised, stupidly offensive
urban dictionary definition – and continues making fun of them by listing dog
shit, a Wendy’s™ double cheeseburger, and computer viruses as possible
turn-ons. I mean, I get it: it’s fiction, Earl’s an idiot and a prick anyway,
and characters rarely mouth off about what the writer personally believes in.
Earl’s spiel is probably just a work of fiction used to fill space, kill time,
and make the reader laugh, but here’s my problem: that’s probably the case. I’m a writer myself, Mr. Andrews, and I know
that characters are almost never a direct reflection of the author themselves,
so that’s why I’m asking a question rather than straight-up calling you out:
are Earl’s views your own? I find it hard to tell.
Even if they’re entirely, 100% made-up – please, God, let
that be the case – I need to make sure you understand why they’re still
unacceptable to have in your book. I know, I know: I’m being hypersensitive. “Stop
being so PC, Sarah! Can’t anyone make a joke these days without it pissing
someone off?” First of all (and I’m not taking stabs at you, Mr. Andrews; this
is a previously acquired grievance), yes, you can. Obviously. If you rely
solely upon making fun of race, gender, disability, sexuality, or biological
sex to fuel your comedy, you need to get out more. Second of all – and again, I’m
not explicitly directing this at you, Jesse; this is, realistically, more of an
opinion piece than an open letter – it’s really unfair and marginalising to
make fun of people based on things they can’t change, or, moreover, to
insinuate that you think these things are weird. It’s hurtful. I don’t know if you know the feeling, Mr. Andrews, since I
don’t know you personally, but there’s a certain jolt in your gut one comes to
associate with their sexuality being called weird or nonsensical as the
punchline of a joke. It happens constantly in modern media, and it’s so alienating. You know the character is
joking, and you know the writers are
joking, but it’s such a slap in the face to be played off of like that. When things
you love put out like they don’t love you because of who you are… I know you
probably didn’t mean to be, Jesse, but it’s heart-breaking. Me and Earl and the Dying Girl was
getting on swimmingly without Earl’s two cents on bisexual people. Why include
that shit at all? Why not stick to the rest of the book’s motto of telling
relatively inoffensive, still hilarious jokes? I just don’t get it.
If you're looking at it holistically, Me and Earl and the Dying Girl is fantastic. I quite honestly
adored it, and I can’t wait for my copy to arrive – but I can’t just look at it
holistically. I’m not the same easy-to-please reader I was two years ago. I’m
left-brain oriented, man! I’m analytical! I pick things apart until they’re
past the point of rational reassembly! Don’t get me wrong; this was probably
one of the best books I’ve read this year, but I can’t just overlook the
problems it posed. Overall, great job, Jesse – just think before you speak next
time. It will save you and me a whole lot of trouble.
Best wishes,
Sarah
Best wishes,
Sarah
TL;DR: Me and Earl and the Dying Girl was a problematic fave for me. On the one
hand, it was HILARIOUS – I've never genuinely laughed out loud so many times
while reading a book. There's just something about Jesse Andrews' style of
writing that appeals to my odd sense of humour, and I found myself dying to
continue reading as the book juxtaposed its melancholic premise with deadpan
comedy and wise-cracking. It's just a fun, funny, fundamentally heartfelt and
gripping story. On the other hand, the biphobia... I just couldn't ignore it. I
wanted to give MEDG five stars, but
there was no way for me to overlook how blatantly Greg and Earl made fun of bisexual people.
Overall, a fantastic read -- I just wish I was able to give it the review it
would have easily deserved, if not for the fact that I can't tell whether
Andrews believed what his main leads said about bisexual people or if he just
used it to make You, Reading This, laugh. Either way, it wasn't on. Read MEDG at your own risk.
