John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars the sweetest love story I’ve read since, well probably Steve Brezenoff’s Brooklyn, Burning. I thought it would be a longer period of time between sweet love stories. I was wrong. Again, that’s fitting because so much in The Fault of Our Stars could have gone wrong. Horribly, horribly, unforgivably wrong.

But it doesn’t, which is a testament to John Green’s writing and sense of humor. Here you have a book about two cancer-stricken teenagers falling in love. I know, right? It sounds like a prime opportunity for saccharine-y sentimental pap and bullshit Hallmark philosophy about seizing the day.

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