My rating: 5 of 5 stars
There are many things in my everyday life that make me go ballistic and then there are the minuscule ones that, put simply, turn my shades of grey to the spectrum of light. I can count them on the ridges of my thumb. When I’m on my way to school and my friend’s beside me and we aren’t talking because sometimes it’s better to hold in your words and dance to the music of silence, and then we pass over this bridge and the river looks so spectacular with sun shining down upon it, like there are flakes of gold sheath moving up and down the waves, and I get so giddy, I start laughing hysterically and I love every second of it. When I’m hiding under my comforter, playing with my little brother and six-year old cousin and we all designate my one-year old cousin as the seeker and then make weird noises so she can find us. And when I’m riding my sister’s Wego, or even riding behind her and we are on these practically empty roads and I start shouting made-up profanities at the occasional passers-by. These are the things that make me happy. And reading books, well only a few choice ones that have ever made me feel like I should be kissing God’s ass(if there is one) so I could forever be stuck in these moments. And Gone Gone Gone is one of them.
Hannah Moskowitz does not create her characters. She does not formulate her stories. The people are there and they have their stories and she’s a fly caught in the web of their lives and thoughts and she prints them out because the only way to escape is to cut off all the strands. And I read Gone Gone Gone and Marco Impossible and I’m thinking that maybe I don’t want her to leave.
I wish I could say that this book was perfect. It was not. It was brilliant and it was fucking spectacular and I loved every letter of it and I’m kissing God’s ass so I can have a redo, but not because I want to change anything. But it was not perfect and those little flaws are what made this book even more beautiful. It’s a pretty simple story, nothing new. But the strength of this book doesn’t lie in the plot-line or the world; it’s in the voice and the characters. And I tell you all this and I want to believe that you’ll believe me when I tell you that it’s fucking brilliant but even evidence isn’t proof and you won’t truly get what I’m saying until you read this one because anything I say is never even going to polish the platter of this splendid piece of writing.
Craig and Lio are people, not characters. If they were any more real-er, if they were any more flawed or perfect, if her writing was(were?) anymore intricate, this book would become a wormhole to the dimension of Gone Gone Gone and the radiations from them would probably off us all who are in the vicinity of this portal or maybe trigger our recessive genes and we start to shoot electric rays because yes, we are the descendants of electric rays and wouldn’t mama be proud? And wouldn’t it be really sad and depressing that no human would ever live to spread the word about Gone Gone Gone. And fuck, yeah I loved it!
I either hate love stories, or I love them, very rarely. And I loved it, despite it being so very ordinary because I do want to screw over Alexander Graham Bell. I hate being forced to talk. And because frozen cold hearts are actually not helping anyone. And really because This is love in the time of shit.