Stephen Chbosky

Oh, what a tragic, oversimplified mess this book is! Stephen Chbosky packs a whole lot of heavy material into 213 pages, but the way he handles that material is so irresponsible that I'm actually left worried about his readers. I'm especially concerned for the unsuspecting younger ones who pick it up having seen the cheery, island of misfit toys-style trailer for the movie based on the book, and are confronted with something entirely different and considerably more weighty. Knowing that most show more YA fiction is read by middle school kids or younger, I can't understand how a YA author can, in good conscience, put the following thought into a 9th grader's head: "She was scared, and it wasn't until she had a sip of whatever we were drinking or a hit off of whatever we were smoking that she would calm down and be the same Sam," and suggest that a good way to feel "infinite" is to stand up in the back of a moving pick-up truck going through a city tunnel. Issues like these are rampant throughout the story (which is, unfortunately, well-crafted and engaging), but the real kicker is the ending, which finally reveals why main character Charlie is so troubled, then glosses over it in a few pages of canned philosophy/psychology. I'm not a fan of trigger warnings, and will resist including a spoiler on that plot point, but really, it was all just way, way too much.

One small positive note: the list of classic books that Charlie's English teacher, Bill, gives him may lead young fans of The Perks of Being a Wallflower to some good reading. It was hard to focus on that aspect because Bill's behavior throughout the book set off so many alarm bells, but his intense interest in Charlie seemed to be innocent and truly well-intentioned in the end. Given the excessive number of traumatic themes that Chbosky had already put into play at that point, I was very relieved that he exercised that small bit of authorial restraint!

This book has been very popular, and I plan to read up on reviews, etc. to learn more about why, but I'm not sure I'm open to being convinced of its merits. show less

While reading Chbosky's Perks of Being a Wallflower, I felt infinite. Chbosky takes his readers on a raw yet poignant ride of not only the essence of being a teenager but the naked truth of our humanness. His protagonist, Charlie, is a the kind of character you wish you could talk with, support, save. Chbosky does incredible work communing us with Charlie's innermost thoughts, emotions, and the darkness shadowing his life. I found myself side by side with Charlie, eager to unravel what was show more next for him. He felt real. And a part of me was captured in that book. And no doubt, a part of all of us. What a beautiful experience, the rapture of a powerful book and feeling infinite! show less

This book is not overly profound or anything but it still hurts just the same. I was not expecting to relate to Charlie, our main character, so much. It felt as though somebody had opened my head and started writing what they saw in a way that actually made sense...kinda. I'm not saying that Charlie and I are the same person or that I agree with all his actions but our minds are frighteningly similar in a way that feels uncomfortable for me. It took me a hot minute to recover from this book show more for the simple fact that I saw so much of myself reflected back at me. I may revisit this in a couple years to see if that sentiment still rings true but for now I will tuck this book back into the ever growing mind file I have dubbed : Things that give me a tummy ache. show less

I'm thinking Chbosky got paid by the word for this turd.

Okay, that's not fair. The first half isn't horrible. In fact, at times, it's actually really damn good. Like, creepy horror King damn good.

But, a funny thing happened on the way to the looooooooong overdue end to this book. Chbosky took a fairly simple, effective plot, then decided to not...end...it. Like, third Lord of the Rings movie not end it. Instead, he tried to turn a simple story into his version of King's [b:The show more Stand|149267|The Stand|Stephen King|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1213131305l/149267._SX50_.jpg|1742269]...without the end of the natural world first.

Okay, so, here's my take. The first third, fantastic. He had great characters, he had some nice echoes starting up that could pay off down the line. He had a creepy start. Well done.

The middle third was where it started going off the rails. I am absolutely not a fan of imaginary places and dream sequences. I find them stupid and often used by lazy writers. You want me to close a book and never give it a second glance? Write me a dream sequence. You want to piss me off, give me a magical imaginary place. And yeah, Joe Hill, I'm looking right at your fucking [b:Horns|6587879|Horns|Joe Hill|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1402958805l/6587879._SY75_.jpg|6781405], with its imaginary treehouse. Fuck your imaginary treehouse.

Oh wait, what other book has imaginary treehouses? This book.

And then, the final third not only slid off the rails, but it fell into a bottomless chasm and just kept going down. Bad guys became good guys. Good guys became bad guys. Then some switched back. God and Satan entered the picture (no...really). Imaginary places became the norm. You can do anything in an imaginary place. If you can think it, you can do it.

Fuck your imaginary places.

If I'm honest (and why wouldn't I be?), I mentally checked out long before the end and literally only half-listened. People were dying, but weren't dead. People sacrificed themselves for the greater god. I heard "Death is coming. Death is here. You will die on Christmas day. (or something like that, I honestly purged it from my brain as soon as I was done)" about eleventy million times. I got really sick of the terms "the hissing lady" and "the nice man".

So, yeah, whatever. Chobsky finally got around to writing "the end" somewhere in there, but I was so long past giving a shit, I was likely three shades lighter. My field of fucks was barren. No fucks were given this day.

Honestly, I don't know if Chobsky found god halfway through the writing of this, or he just thought turning a decent, tight little horror novel into a sprawling treatise on what god is was a great idea. Don't know. Don't care.

Ultimately, this was simply a huge, disappointing waste of time. My suggestion? Cut the book in half and end it cleanly before the stupid shit shows up. show less