by Green, John
The John Green Collection
Looking for Alaska
An Abundance of Katherines
Paper Towns
The Fault in Our Stars
John Green
Rave Reviews for John Green!
“Funny, sweet, and unpredictable.”
—The Minneapolis Star Tribune on An Abundance of Katherines
“Funny, fun, challengingly complex and entirely entertaining.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review of An Abundance of Katherines
“Green follows his Printz-winning Looking for Alaska with another sharp, intelligent story. The laugh-out-loud humor ranges from delightfully sophomoric to subtly intellectual.”
—Booklist, starred review of An Abundance of Katherines
“Laugh-out-loud funny . . . A coming-of-age American road trip that is at once a satire of and tribute to its many celebrated predecessors.”
—The Horn Book, starred review of An Abundance of Katherines
“Enjoyable, witty, and even charming.”
—SLJ on An Abundance of Katherines
“Funny . . . Poignant . . . Luminous.”
—Entertainment Weekly on The Fault in Our Stars
“Green writes with empathy about some of the biggest questions there are—Why me? Why now? Why bother with love?—producing a story about two incandescent kids who will live a long time in the minds of the readers who come to know them.”
—People, four out of four stars on The Fault in Our Stars
“Damn near genius.” —TIME Magazine on The Fault in Our Stars
“Remarkable . . . A pitch perfect, elegiac comedy.”
—USA Today, four out of four stars on The Fault in Our Stars
“A smarter, edgier Love Story for the Net Generation.”
—Family Circle on The Fault in Our Stars
“In its every aspect, this novel is a triumph.”
—Booklist, starred review of The Fault in Our Stars
“. . . an achingly beautiful story about life and loss.”
—SLJ, starred review of The Fault in Our Stars
“. . . razor-sharp characters brim with genuine intellect, humor and desire.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review of The Fault in Our Stars
“. . . [an] acerbic comedy, sexy romance, and a lightly played, extended meditation on the big questions about life and death.”
—The Horn Book, starred review of The Fault in Our Stars
“. . . this is [Green’s] best work yet.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review of The Fault in Our Stars
“Green’s much-anticipated novel is breathtaking in its ability to alternate between iridescent humor and raw tragedy.”
—VOYA, starred review of The Fault in Our Stars
“Alive with sweet, self-deprecating humor . . . Like Phineas in John Knowles’ A Separate Peace, Green draws Alaska . . . lovingly, in self-loathing darkness as well as energetic light.”
—SLJ, starred review of Looking for Alaska
“Miles is an articulate spokesperson for the legions of teens searching for life meaning.”
—BCCB, starred review of Looking for Alaska
“What sings and soars in this gorgeously told tale is Green’s mastery of language . . . Girls will cry and boys will find love, lust, loss and longing in Alaska’s vanilla-and-cigarettes scent.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review of Looking for Alaska
“Readers will only hope that this is not the last word from this promising new author.”
—Publishers Weekly on Looking for Alaska
“Green’s prose is astounding—from hilarious, hyperintellectual trash talk and shtick, to complex philosophizing, to devastating observation and truths. He nails it—exactly how a thing feels, looks, affects—page after page.”
—SLJ, starred review of Paper Towns
“Green ponders the interconnectedness of imagination and perception . . . he is not only clever and wonderfully witty but also deeply thoughtful and insightful.”
—Booklist, starred review of Paper Towns
“Green knows what he does best and delivers once again with this satisfying, crowd-pleasing [book].”
—Kirkus Reviews on Paper Towns
“[A] terrific high-energy tale of teen love, lust, intrigue, anger, pain, and friendship.” —Booklist, starred review of Will Grayson, Will Grayson
“Complete with honest language, interesting characters, and a heartfelt, gritty edge, this quirky yet down-to-earth collaboration by two master YA storytellers will keep readers turning pages.”
—SLJ, starred review of Will Grayson, Will Grayson
“An intellectually existential, electrically ebullient love story that brilliantly melds the ridiculous with the realistic.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review of Will Grayson, Will Grayson
“Funny, rude and original.”
—New York Times Book Review on Will Grayson, Will Grayson
“A comedy as delicious as any whipped up by the Bard.”
—Washington Post Book World on Let It Snow
“There is plenty of physical humor for laugh-out-loud fun and enough dreamy romance to warm up those cold winter nights.”
—VOYA on Let It Snow
“This is a great story illuminating the magic of the holidays and the strengths and weaknesses of friendships.”
—KLIATT on Let It Snow
“The authors share an ironic, idiosyncratic sense of humor that helps bind their stories, each with a slightly different tone and take on love, into one interconnected volume brimming with romance and holiday spirit.”
—The Horn Book on Let It Snow
looking for alaska
JOHN GREEN
Pages 18–19 and 155: Excerpt from The General in His Labyrinth,
by Gabriel García Márquez
Page 85: Poetry quote from “As I Walked Out One Evening,” by W. H. Auden
Page 89: Poetry quote from “Not So Far as the Forest,” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
SPEAK
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the United States of America by Dutton Books,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2005
Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2007, 2012
Copyright © John Green, 2005
All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DUTTON EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Green, John.
Looking for Alaska / John Green.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Sixtee
n-year-old Miles’ first year at Culver Creek Preparatory School in Alabama includes good friends and great pranks, but is defined by the search for answers about life and death after a fatal car crash.
[1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Boarding schools—Fiction.
3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Death—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G8233Lo 2005
[Fic]—dc222004010827
Speak ISBN: 978-1-101-43420-8
Designed by Irene Vandervoort
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
To my family: Sydney Green, Mike Green, and Hank Green
“I have tried so hard to do right.”
(last words of President Grover Cleveland)
acknowledgments
USING SMALL TYPE that does not reflect the size of my debt, I need to acknowledge some things:
First, that this book would have been utterly impossible if not for the extraordinary kindness of my friend, editor, quasi-agent, and mentor, Ilene Cooper. Ilene is like a fairy godmother, only real, and also better dressed.
Second, that I am amazingly fortunate to have Julie Strauss-Gabel as my editor at Dutton, and even luckier to have become her friend. Julie is every writer’s dream editor: caring, passionate, and inarguably brilliant. This right here, her acknowledgment, is the one thing in the whole book she couldn’t edit, and I think we can agree it suffered as a result.
Third, that Donna Brooks believed in this story from the beginning and did much to shape it. I’m also indebted to Margaret Woollatt of Dutton, whose name contains too many consonants but who is a really top-notch person. And thanks as well to the talented Sarah Shumway, whose careful reading and astute comments were a blessing to me.
Fourth, that I am very grateful to my agent, Rosemary Sandberg, who is a tireless advocate for her authors. Also, she is British. She says “Cheers” when she means to say “Later.” How great is that?
Fifth, that the comments of my two best friends in the entire world, Dean Simakis and Will Hickman, were essential to the writing and revision of this story, and that I, uh, you know, love them.
Sixth, that I am indebted to, among many others, Shannon James (roommate), Katie Else (I promised), Hassan Arawas (friend), Braxton Goodrich (cousin), Mike Goodrich (lawyer, and also cousin), Daniel Biss (professional mathematician), Giordana Segneri (friend), Jenny Lawton (long story), David Rojas and Molly Hammond (friends), Bill Ott (role model), Amy Krouse Rosenthal (got me on the radio), Stephanie Zvirin (gave me my first real job), P. F. Kluge (teacher), Diane Martin (teacher), Perry Lentz (teacher), Don Rogan (teacher), Paul MacAdam (teacher—I am a big fan of teachers), Ben Segedin (boss and friend), and the lovely Sarah Urist.
Seventh, that I attended high school with a wonderful bunch of people. I would like to particularly thank the indomitable Todd Cartee and also Olga Charny, Sean Titone, Emmett Cloud, Daniel Alarcon, Jennifer Jenkins, Chip Dunkin, and MLS.
Table of Contents
Before
After
Looking for Alaska Reader's Guide
before
one hundred thirty-six days before
THE WEEK BEFORE I left my family and Florida and the rest of my minor life to go to boarding school in Alabama, my mother insisted on throwing me a going-away party. To say that I had low expectations would be to underestimate the matter dramatically. Although I was more or less forced to invite all my “school friends,” i.e., the ragtag bunch of drama people and English geeks I sat with by social necessity in the cavernous cafeteria of my public school, I knew they wouldn’t come. Still, my mother persevered, awash in the delusion that I had kept my popularity secret from her all these years. She cooked a small mountain of artichoke dip. She festooned our living room in green and yellow streamers, the colors of my new school. She bought two dozen champagne poppers and placed them around the edge of our coffee table.
And when that final Friday came, when my packing was mostly done, she sat with my dad and me on the living-room couch at 4:56 P.M. and patiently awaited the arrival of the Good-bye to Miles Cavalry. Said cavalry consisted of exactly two people: Marie Lawson, a tiny blonde with rectangular glasses, and her chunky (to put it charitably) boyfriend, Will.
“Hey, Miles,” Marie said as she sat down.
“Hey,” I said.
“How was your summer?” Will asked.
“Okay. Yours?”
“Good. We did Jesus Christ Superstar. I helped with the sets. Marie did lights,” said Will.
“That’s cool.” I nodded knowingly, and that about exhausted our conversational topics. I might have asked a question about Jesus Christ Superstar, except that 1. I didn’t know what it was, and 2. I didn’t care to learn, and 3. I never really excelled at small talk. My mom, however, can talk small for hours, and so she extended the awkwardness by asking them about their rehearsal schedule, and how the show had gone, and whether it was a success.
“I guess it was,” Marie said. “A lot of people came, I guess.” Marie was the sort of person to guess a lot.
Finally, Will said, “Well, we just dropped by to say good-bye. I’ve got to get Marie home by six. Have fun at boarding school, Miles.”
“Thanks,” I answered, relieved. The only thing worse than having a party that no one attends is having a party attended only by two vastly, deeply uninteresting people.
They left, and so I sat with my parents and stared at the blank TV and wanted to turn it on but knew I shouldn’t. I could feel them both looking at me, waiting for me to burst into tears or something, as if I hadn’t known all along that it would go precisely like this. But I had known. I could feel their pity as they scooped artichoke dip with chips intended for my imaginary friends, but they needed pity more than I did: I wasn’t disappointed. My expectations had been met.
“Is this why you want to leave, Miles?” Mom asked.
I mulled it over for a moment, careful not to look at her. “Uh, no,” I said.
“Well, why then?” she asked. This was not the first time she had posed the question. Mom was not particularly keen on letting me go to boarding school and had made no secret of it.
“Because of me?” my dad asked. He had attended Culver Creek, the same boarding school to which I was headed, as had both of his brothers and all of their kids. I think he liked the idea of me following in his footsteps. My uncles had told me stories about how famous my dad had been on campus for having simultaneously raised hell and aced all his classes. That sounded like a better life than the one I had in Florida. But no, it wasn’t because of Dad. Not exactly.
“Hold on,” I said. I went into Dad’s study and found his biography of François Rabelais. I liked reading biographies of writers, even if (as was the case with Monsieur Rabelais) I’d never read any of their actual writing. I flipped to the back and found the highlighted quote (“NEVER USE A HIGHLIGHTER IN MY BOOKS,” my dad had told me a thousand times. But how else are you supposed to find what you’re looking for?).
“So this guy,” I said, standing in the doorway of the living room. “François Rabelais. He was this poet. And his last words were ‘I go to seek a Great Perhaps.’ That’s why I’m going. So I don’t have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps.”
And that quieted them. I was after a Great Perhaps, and they knew as well as I did that I wasn’t going to find it with the likes of Will and Marie. I sat back down on the couch, between my mom and my dad, and my dad put his arm around me, and we stayed there like that, quiet on the couch together, for a long time, until it seemed okay to turn on the TV, and then we ate artichoke dip for dinner and watched the History Channel, and as going-away parties go, it certainly could have been worse.
one hundred twenty-eight days before
FLORIDA WAS PLENTY HOT, certain
ly, and humid, too. Hot enough that your clothes stuck to you like Scotch tape, and sweat dripped like tears from your forehead into your eyes. But it was only hot outside, and generally I only went outside to walk from one air-conditioned location to another.
This did not prepare me for the unique sort of heat that one encounters fifteen miles south of Birmingham, Alabama, at Culver Creek Preparatory School. My parents’ SUV was parked in the grass just a few feet outside my dorm room, Room 43. But each time I took those few steps to and from the car to unload what now seemed like far too much stuff, the sun burned through my clothes and into my skin with a vicious ferocity that made me genuinely fear hellfire.
Between Mom and Dad and me, it only took a few minutes to unload the car, but my unair-conditioned dorm room, although blessedly out of the sunshine, was only modestly cooler. The room surprised me: I’d pictured plush carpet, wood-paneled walls, Victorian furniture. Aside from one luxury—a private bathroom—I got a box. With cinder-block walls coated thick with layers of white paint and a green-and-white-checkered linoleum floor, the place looked more like a hospital than the dorm room of my fantasies. A bunk bed of unfinished wood with vinyl mattresses was pushed against the room’s back window. The desks and dressers and bookshelves were all attached to the walls in order to prevent creative floor planning. And no air-conditioning.
I sat on the lower bunk while Mom opened the trunk, grabbed a stack of the biographies my dad had agreed to part with, and placed them on the bookshelves.
“I can unpack, Mom,” I said. My dad stood. He was ready to go.
“Let me at least make your bed,” Mom said.
“No, really. I can do it. It’s okay.” Because you simply cannot draw these things out forever. At some point, you just pull off the Band-Aid and it hurts, but then it’s over and you’re relieved.
“God, we’ll miss you,” Mom said suddenly, stepping through the minefield of suitcases to get to the bed. I stood and hugged her. My dad walked over, too, and we formed a sort of huddle. It was too hot, and we were too sweaty, for the hug to last terribly long. I knew I ought to cry, but I’d lived with my parents for sixteen years, and a trial separation seemed overdue.
