A few months ago, I reviewed John Green's Paper Towns on here. I was disheartened by the clever distancing, the self-conscious cheekiness, the manic pixie dream girl paired with the bland narrator. I'd heard that Green's first book, Looking for Alaska, was similar, but better. That's very true.

There's this phrase I've read about that's used in Thailand, "same same, but different". I'd say that's the case with Paper Towns and Looking for Alaska. Superficially, they're pretty much the same books. Hell, thematically, they're pretty much the same books. Looking for Alaska manages to delve deeper, though--it's a much more meaningful exploration of the same themes.

Still, if you're not into clever distancing, self-conscious cheekiness, and manic pixie dream girls who are paired with bland narrators, this still might not completely win you over--I'm not sure it did, me.

Looking for Alaska is apparently semi-autobiographical. It's set at a bordering school that bears a striking resemblance to the school that Green attended. The narrator, Pudge, is, like Green, from Florida, and is into memorizing the last words of famous folks (a trope I found, like the use of literature in both this book and Paper Towns, not nearly as brilliant as I suspect I was supposed to). And mid-way through the novel, Alaska dies--this is not a spoiler; I am not spoiling; the back cover gives it away--in a manner quite like some of Green's classmates. Perhaps this is why the narrative is that much more convincing. For the most part, the setting rings true, and is quite vivid--and most of the characters ring true, too. They are much more people-ish than the characters of Paper Towns, who were more like caricatures than human beings. And there were a few scenes--for example, one where Alaska and Pudge explore the abandoned dorms during Thanksgiving, searching for porn--that hit very deep, indeed.

But when it comes down to it, I still don't really love stories like this: stories where better, more interesting girls exist only as a means to bring brilliance to the comparatively unbrilliant lives of unbrilliant boys, and especially stories where they have to martyr themselves to do so. Green's heroines resist this somewhat actively--Alaska is, supposedly, a feminist; she tells us as much, but it's never really reflected in any of her actions--but he still defaults to the manic pixie stereotypes over and over again. I honestly don't think this would bother me if I were younger. In fact, when I was younger, I found the idea of being some man's Marla or Clementine quite appealing. But now, as an adult, I find myself wanting to shake the Joels and the Pudges of the world by the shoulder and repeat to them Clementine's words, which are never, ever heeded: "Too many guys think I'm a concept, or I complete them, or I'm gonna make them alive. But I'm just a fucked-up girl who's lookin' for my own peace of mind; don't assign me yours." And I want to shake my head at the girl who I once was and tell her that taking a bit part in someone else's life is not nearly as romantic as these clever boy authors always make it seem.