I Have a Love-Hate Relationship with John Green

The poor man doesn’t know it, but it’s the truth, my friends. As I discussed here, I recently discovered (well, re-discovered, really) his works, both literary and videologgy. And no matter what you think of him, you can’t deny this: The man knows how to use his words (And tells us to do the same in his vlogs, incidentally. I’M TRYING JOHN OKAY). Like, he seriously knows how. As in, I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve encountered in my life that are as articulate as he is. But while his thoughts about the world are always elegantly, simply, and beautifully stated, my thoughts about him are hard to define. And so, for your reading pleasure, the ubiquitous bulleted list:

• I love the fact that nothing is off-limits for Green when it comes to his writing. The good, the bad, the ugly. The transcendent and the base. All of it is fair game; all of it is subject to the piercing clarity of his wit and apparently ridiculously spot-on understanding of life in general.

• I hate the fact that nothing is off-limits. The stuff he talks about is IMPORTANT. Plain and simple. But after reading his work for a while, I get the same sort of feeling I get when someone pegs something about me, something uncomfortable and off-putting that I thought I had kept hidden. It’s a sort of mental nakedness that, while healthy and refreshing, is difficult to handle.

• I love his beautiful, quotable, impeccable prose. I freaking LOVE it, you guys. The way Green writes is every reader’s dream, and after I’ve been reading his work for a while, it rubs off on me. Even my casual thoughts sound polished and erudite–and not even in a pretentious way, but in a satisfyingly clear and endearingly intelligent way. At least, I think that’s how it is. Perhaps you would disagree if you could see into my head. And it’s a good thing you can’t, because all of these thoughts make even less sense in there. ANYWAY…

• I hate his beautiful, quotable, impeccable prose. It makes mine look like it was written by a fourth-grader, or possibly someone who is learning English. Like all artists, I experience a painful dichotomy when engaging with the masterpieces of others. I can appreciate wonderful art, but while doing so, I can never shake the piercing pain of longing when I realize how awesome I very clearly am NOT.

There it is, folks. My complicated feelings in all their glory(?). John Green will never read this, but if he did, I would tell him how infuriatingly awesome he is and what a roller-coastery yet satisfying experience it is to read his books and watch his and (the equally fantastic) Hank Green’s vlogs.

Oh, and by the way, DFTBA.