John Green Credit Marina Waters
People tend to associate O.C.D. with repetitive behaviors, and that’s partly true in Aza’s case: She has a wound on her finger, self-inflicted, that she continually reopens in order to drain and re-sanitize.
But her repetitive, intrusive thoughts are her true torment. She’s obsessed with – and repulsed by – the ecosystem of bacteria that seethes inside her, and the bacteria that live without. She can’t stop worrying about the rumble in her gut, or the breeding microbes therein, or the possibility of contracting an infection involving clostridium difficile, or the prospect of sweating, or not being able to stop sweating, or touching someone who is sweating. She has to fight off the insistent, unignorable urge to put hand sanitizer in her mouth. Sometimes the urge wins.
We spend long stretches inside Aza’s head, listening to these swift and unsteady thoughts. The rational part of her, the one that sees a therapist and fitfully takes medication, tries to talk herself down. But her mind is in the throes of a civil war.
“Please let me go,” Aza tells her unwanted thoughts at a particularly helpless moment. “I’ll do anything. I’ll stand down.”
If Green were writing in his usual register, he’d interrupt Aza’s descents into these cognitive spirals – or “light-swallowing wormholes,” as she once calls them – with a bit of humor. But he seems to have made a decision: If Aza can’t find relief, neither can we.
The first few chapters of “Turtles All the Way Down” are a little crude, a little awkward and a little slow to get off the ground – it’s as if Green needed extra time on the runway to overcome the weight of a success like “The Fault in Our Stars,” which became a touchstone for teenagers everywhere. (It has been rated 2,529,550 times on Goodreads, a number that continues to spin forward even as I type, like the odometer of a spaceship.) The premise: An Indianapolis billionaire has skipped town just before the police come to get him for bribery and fraud. A $100,000 reward is on offer to anyone who’s got the skinny on his whereabouts. Aza’s best friend, Daisy (the tornado), remembers that Aza knows this guy’s son. Wouldn’t he know something? And wouldn’t a hundred grand be grand?
Aza does know his son. She’d met him years ago at “Sad Camp,” a summer program for kids who’d lost one or both of their parents. Aza had lost her father; Davis, the billionaire’s son, lost his mother. Now it seems that both of his parents are gone.
So Aza reluctantly agrees to pay Davis a visit, and the novel – boom – begins in earnest. The two feel an ancient kinship, a bonding of broken souls. He’s terrified that his identity is inseparable from his money; she’s terrified that her identity is inseparable from her thoughts – aren’t people the sum of their thoughts? If they aren’t, what are they? “If you can’t pick what you do or think about,” she explains to him, “then maybe you aren’t really real, you know?”
A sweet, conventional love story begins. But it hits a bittersweet, unconventional dead end. Aza can’t kiss Davis without panicking. All those microbes. “I’m not gonna un-have this,” she miserably explains of her condition.
Still they bond. And Aza and Daisy try to solve the mystery of Davis’s father’s disappearance. At one point, Daisy gives Aza hell – doesn’t she see how her mental illness has made her self-absorbed? – and it’s awful. Then it isn’t. The friendships in Green’s novels are stirring and powerful. They’re one of the reasons we show up to read them.
“You are my favorite person,” Daisy tells Aza after they’ve reconciled. “I want to be buried next to you. We’ll have a shared tombstone.”
But the real question is: How does such a story end for Aza?
If an author has integrity, it should end plausibly. Green has integrity. He also has O.C.D. He’s tweeted about it; he’s discussed it on his famous video blog with his brother, Hank. Watch his entry from July 25 sometime.
I still wasn’t prepared for the ending of this novel. It’s so surprising and moving and true that I became completely unstrung, incapable of reading it to my husband without breaking down. One needn’t be suffering like Aza to identify with it. One need only be human. Everyone, at some point, knows what it’s like when the mind develops a mind of its own.
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