Verda Delp

I have just read two very wonderful books:

1. Vaclav and Lena by Haley Tanner.

A lovely fairytale of a novel. About Vaclav and Lena, young Russian immigrants, who amid [or is it in spite of] the harshness of their worlds, struggle to find and keep love and comfort in their lives.

Here is an excerpt from the book's first chapter. In this scene, Vaclav and Lena are young children. They are making preparations for a magic show:

“Lena, what we are having here is perfect introduction to the act. It is long and perfect and made of only the best and longest thesaurus words,” says Vaclav.

“After third sentence, say, ‘Magic is art of control events using supernatural powers,’ ” says Lena. This sentence is a favorite of Lena’s — she memorized it from The Magician’s Almanac, which is a big old black book with gold around the edges of the pages, all about magic and tricks and illusions. Vaclav kept checking the almanac out of the library, so last year for his birthday she put it in her backpack and took it home with her, so that she could give it to him for a birthday present, and it could be theirs forever.

“That sounds good, but is not belonging in the act. I already told you. This is the introduction, complete. Seal it now with the magic birthday candle.” Vaclav folds the notebook paper on which the introduction to the act is written, and he holds it out to Lena. Lena does not take it from him. Lena holds the magic birthday candle in her left hand and rubs its spiraled ridges with her thumb. In her right hand, she holds the lighter with which she is to light the candle. The wax-dripping paper-sealing is an important part of anything Vaclav and Lena write, and it is Lena’s job, exclusively Lena’s, to light the magic birthday candle, to hold it high, and to then let the wax drip onto the folded paper, sealing it for all of time.

Under Vaclav’s bed, next to a forgotten sock, among many gatherings of fuzzy, dusty things, is a shoe box full of pieces of notebook paper folded and sealed with Lena’s wax drips. The things written on them are important declarations, pacts, lists, and other artifacts of the lives of the young magicians.

There is a poignant article and video about Haley Tanner and her husband Gavin Snow, who passed away last year, in the NYTimes that's worth taking a look at here.

2. The Fault in Our Stars by John Green.

Even the title tells of the beauty of this young adult novel. [This book should be read by adults in general, though.] This is a honest and poignant [but not a bit sentimental] and at times harsh look at two very wonderful young people who have cancer and how they conduct themselves in their world and how they think about their lives.

Here is an excerpt from the first chapter. In this scene, Augustus and Hazel have just met at a cancer support group. He has asked her out and they are waiting outside for her mother so Hazel can let her know she will not be going home.

Then Augustus Waters reached into a pocket and pulled out, of all things, a pack of cigarettes. He flipped it open and put a cigarette between his lips.

"Are you serious?" I asked. "You think that's cool? Oh, my God, you just ruined the whole thing."

"Which whole thing?" he asked, turning to me. The cigarette dangled unlit from the unsmiling corner of his mouth.

"The whole thing where a boy who is not unattractive or unintelligent or seemingly in any way unacceptable stares at me and points out incorrect uses of literality and compares me to actresses and asks me to watch a movie at his house. But of course there is always a hamartia and yours is that oh, my God, even though you HAD FREAKING CANCER you give money to a company in exchange for the chance to acquire YET MORE CANCER. Oh, my God. Let me just assure you that not being able to breathe? SUCKS. Totally disappointing. Totally."

"A hamartia?" he asked, the cigarette still in his mouth. It tightened his jaw. He had a hell of a jawline, unfortunately.

"A fatal flaw," I explained, turning away from him. I stepped toward the curb, leaving Augustus Waters behind me, and then I heard a car start down the street. It was Mom. She'd been waiting for me to, like, make friends or whatever.

I felt this weird mix of disappointment and anger welling up inside of me. I don't even know what the feeling was, really, just that there was a lot of it, and I wanted to smack Augustus Waters and also replace my lungs with lungs that didn't suck at being lungs. I was standing with my Chuck Taylors on the very edge of the curb, the oxygen tank ball-and-chaining in the cart by my side, and right as my mom pulled up, I felt a hand grab mine.

I yanked my hand free but turned back to him.

"They don't kill you unless you light them," he said as Mom arrived at the curb. "And I've never lit one. It's a metaphor, see: You put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its killing."

"It's a metaphor," I said, dubious. Mom was just idling.

"It's a metaphor," he said.

"You choose your behaviors based on their metaphorical resonances . . ." I said.

"Oh, yes." He smiled. The big, goofy, real smile. "I'm a big believer in metaphor, Hazel Grace."

I turned to the car. Tapped the window. It rolled down. "I'm going to a movie with Augustus Waters," I said. "Please record the next several episodes of the ANTM marathon for me."