Looking for Alaska and finding Hope
“How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering?”
It's nice to not be disappointed. That was my first thought when I finished Looking for Alaska, John Green's debut novel. I first ran into John Green while watching Crash Course on YouTube (for fun), and thought, "weird that this guy has the same name as that guy who wrote a Fault in our Stars." I later found out they were the same person and have since been trying to reconcile these two people in my head: John Green who makes great internet content like Crash Course and his wonderfully meditative series playing GTA V as a pacifist, and John Green who writes sick chick novels. I have neither read nor watched a Fault in our Stars and I assumed, as I learned John Green had also assumed, that anything that was a best seller would be not that good if not bad. I got more and more invested in John Green the internet person and fellow Vlogbrother Hank Green all the while trying to avoid John Green the author because I didn't want to be let down by someone I respect. My brother and I went to the book tour for Hank's an Absolutely Remarkable Thing and on the tour, I thought Hank said some very insightful things about the internet and the promise of fame. But when I read Hank's book, I couldn't help but be disappointed; I had heard Hank say similar things as the book, but far better in other contexts. And it's hard feeling disappointed by people you admire; I felt the same way after talking to another author, Brandon Sanderson. So, I was incredibly hesitant to pick up Looking for Alaska because I really like John Green and didn't want to face the inevitable disappointment that would come with the novel. But like I said, it's nice not to be disappointed.
Looking for Alaska follows Miles Halter, aka Pudge, as he enters boarding school, falls in with a group of friends, and becomes enamored of the inscrutable Alaska Young. Carrying hints of Harry Potter, the Catcher in the Rye, and the Outsiders, Miles leaves his public school in Florida for the lure of the 'Great Perhaps,' the possibility of something deeper to life than what he's found at home, pulled from the many famous last words that he memorizes and obsesses over. Like Holden, Miles, immediately nicknamed Pudge by his roommate Chip aka the Colonel because he's rail thin, is put off by the emptiness of his existence. Holden rails against the artificially of the world, where as Pudge feels as though he's standing on a frozen ocean, something is out there, something deep and profound but he's separated from it. Like Ponyboy, he and his friends are shockingly literary amid their chain-smoking and hijinks. Like Harry, he actually has to go to class and the classes affect his growth in meaningful ways, but there's always some mystery left to be solved. And all of this comes to focus in Alaska.
The novel begins with a ticking clock: "one hundred thirty-six days before." It transforms the pranks, conversations, and lectures into something a promise, a reminder at the beginning of every chapter to pay attention, something is happening. A little less than halfway through the book, I thought this could be really good. I was still reluctant to embrace the book because I didn't want to be sad when it was bad, but it seemed like it could be great. All the elements were there for the second part, 'after,' to coalesce. In their class on religion, Pudge, Alaska, and the Colonel are asked to write a paper on the most important question for humans to answer and how Christianity, Islam, and Buddism answer the question. Pudge, consumed with last words and the Great Perhaps, asks what happens to us when we die. The Colonel, deeply loving his mom who raised him in a trailer park when his dad walked out on him, asks why good people get rotten lots in life. Alaska, deeply sad and guilty and lively and enigmatic, asks how will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering. And it all comes to focus in Alaska.
In the middle of the book, what the first half builds to and the second half grapples with, Alaska dies. She crashes her car straight into a parked police cruiser, either suicide or a drunken accident. It breaks the Colonel and Pudge, and all they're left with is the questions they just wrote essays about: what happens when we die, why do bad things happen to good people, and Alaska's haunting question, how do we escape the labyrinth of suffering. Suddenly, these questions of humanity and religion become an all-encompassing reality. Pudge and the Colonel struggle to answer them, while also trying to figure out how Alaska dies, and how to honor her memory.
What I feared before the second half of the novel was the negative tone of the questions. I was assuming that Alaska would die and that the questions of the characters would become the central feature of the book. What I feared was that the novel wouldn't change, that it would remain in Pudges fear of death, the Colonel's anger with the world, and Alaska's deep sadness. But in the second half, I was thrilled to be proved wrong. What religion offers is not merely solace in the present. That fear and anger and sadness will all one day be made right long after we are dead. No, religion offers us hope. Hope that in the present, we need not fear. In the present, the world can be put right. In the present, sadness can be turned to joy. It forgives us and implores us and empowers us to forgive and love our crooked neighbors with our crooked hearts.
Like Pudge, I came to Looking for Alaska in fear. Fear that reading the book would only dissolution my love, admiration, and respect for John Green. And like Pudge, I come away from it with hope. Hope that in a world of brokenness, mediocrity, and indifference, sometimes a work of beauty and craft and hope with break through and people will recognize its power. And like Pudge, I will leave you with the last words, looking for the Great Perhaps: "I don't know where there is, but I believe it's somewhere, and I hope it's beautiful"
