Finally — the last 50-75% of this book seemed to drag on interminably.

I was predisposed to like this book because I’d enjoyed the movie (or at least enjoyed Logan Lerman and Emma Watson; same difference?), and in the beginning I did. But Charlie doesn’t seem to have any opinions or judgments of his own; he’s so perfectly bland (except for the social awkwardness and recurring displays of emotion, ie crying) and just really epitomizes a passive wallflower, which doesn’t make for a very interesting read. A lot of things happen to other people, and things have happened to Charlie in the past: a brief summary of this book.

Honestly, I subscribe to the “The curtains were blue” method of reading: When the author says the curtains were blue, maybe they really were just describing the color, and not writing in a metaphor for sadness. So my approach to reading and thinking differs fundamentally from Charlie’s. His “philosophical” observations read like a tentative in-class Socratic seminar discussion: wholly inoffensive, overly empathetic, undermined by the “I guess, I don’t really know”; in some particularly frustrating cases he stops just short of drawing a conclusion, or drops a mood-changing detail then says he doesn’t know why he did. I don’t know, it feels like a copout to me.