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They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera

On September 5, a little after midnight, Death-Cast calls Mateo Torrez and Rufus Emeterio to give them some bad news: They’re going to die today. Mateo and Rufus are total strangers, but, for different reasons, they’re both looking to make a new friend on their End Day. The good news: There’s an app for that. It’s called the Last Friend, and through it, Rufus and Mateo are about to meet up for one last great adventure—to live a lifetime in a single day.

From Adam Silvera's official website Skip to the end of this post for the trigger warnings.

After reading my last book over the course of three days I was kinda worried the next pick would be tough. I considered the books in my library, the most recent birthday + Christmas loot versus the been-here-so-long-what-are-you-waiting-for books, and vaguely glanced over a started-this-one-three-years-ago-what-happened (I might have to go back to this one some time this year. I'll keep you posted).

Making choices is hard for me (understatement) and that's probably part of the reasons why I don't read as much as I'd like. Reading one book means I'm missing out on reading another; apply that logic to any other area of my life and you get a fair picture of my neurosis. I switched to my ebooks list because somehow digital words are less scary than printed ones and had already given up on any title possibly triggering a spark of interest until my brain went to a full stop and whispered: this one. They Both Die at the End tells the story of a world about exactly like ours except for the fact that everyday between midnight and 3am, thousands of people get a phone call telling them that today is the day they are going to die. They don't know why or how or when exactly they will die but they definitely have less than 24 hours to live and what they're doing with that knowledge and with that time, well, it's entirely up to them. How freaking terrifying.

Something that might be worth mentioning if you don't know me personally is that the thought of death terrifies me. Granted, most people probably aren't super thrilled about it either but in my case uuuh well let's say the mere thought of it is an entire ride to panic town. My brain freezes, skips, rewinds and repeats, my chest gets hollow, my throat feels full and my thoughts get in an endless loop of BAD. Now, you may wonder, if the very thought of death gives me a panic attack faster than you can say thanatophobia why the fuck would I pick this book to read? WELL WHAT DO I KNOW Fine.

I read this book for the challenge.

The challenge of having to read the thoughts of two people confronted to their imminent death, confronted to the urgency of it all, having to sort out their lives and make their goodbyes, make amends and live their last day the best they can, the best they ever wanted to live, all of it happening all at once with no escape. AKA the most terrifying thing. I've been working on myself to step outside of my comfort zone and this one could damn well have been a step, slip, end up in a painful accidental split and can't get my breath back out-of-my-comfort-zone situation but, well. I went for it. And the thing is, it saddens me to say I didn't connect to the characters as much as I wished I would have. I'm usually a character person. Whatever I read or watch, characters mean everything to me. Dialogues that sound real and people who seem spontaneous will sweep me off my feet way higher than a solid plot in a crazy-detailed universe. With this one though, I think maybe I wasn't entirely the target audience; not because I actually believe that there are such things as young adult novels that won't speak to older adults but rather because of what I was expecting from it. I usually ask my friends to never tell me anything about a movie I haven't seen yet. I don't even want to hear people's opinion about it- which is pretty rich coming from someone currently writing a book review, I'll give you that. But I know my friends too well; I know what they're responsive to and what bores them. If they sound like they enjoyed a piece enough but are still slightly disappointed I know which storylines won't go to the fullest of their potential, guess the end of the movie and then what's the point in watching it till the end. I didn't know anything about this book except it was from the LGBTQA+ book section and what the title gave away (I know what you're thinking- the title literally gives away everything, what more do you need?) but that was enough for me to build expectations and wish for answers to questions that turned out to be entirely off focus. They Both Die at the End is a romance novel. It doesn't mean it's intrinsically less good than any other kind but it does mean my questions weren't answered. There's a line in particular at the beginning of the book that stayed with me. When he gets the call, Rufus asks the Death Cast operator: how do you guys know? And that line just tilted things for me. I went on a hunt for clues: references here and there that people believe that Death Cast is a scam; a character who thinks a joke is being played on her until the very last hours of the day; damn, there aren't any public records of how the algorithm works! For all the love I give to slow burn and sweet love stories, this time around I wanted it to be more than that. I wanted Mateo and Rufus' last day to be a day of investigating Death Cast, trying to figure out if all of the deaths they "predict" are actual predictions or if some of them are plain old murders orchestrated to consolidate people's trust in the corporation. Yeah, for once in my life, I was Team Conspiration Theory. Instead the novel barely touches on those subjects- it's a book about people, not about the universe they live in. It's a science-fiction setting, not science-fiction story. It's not a bad book, just the wrong book for me. See, I was barking up the entirely wrong bookshelf.

I'm not disappointed I read it though. This book had something else to offer that definitely worked for me. The title sets a double challenge. It tells it like it is: it looks you in the eyes and goes "these two main characters will die at the end of this book, you have been warned, don't get your hopes up, don't get attached, it ends badly." So of course, the first challenge is "good luck with facing your own fear of death, bud." But there's another gamble coming with this title, it's the thought that crept up at the back of my mind the second I read the title and stayed with me throughout the entire book: Do they really? Do they really not make it at the end? And that's the deal with consuming fiction: these characters are my eyes and ears into this world. If they die then it's over. I'm not even that involved into their story or their families' but if they die, the possibility of their story just stops. I don't want it to stop, how will I know what happens next? What if there's a twist I miss, a chance I might like it better?

Let's take a breather. Think about that for a second. And now let's say that my wishes come true, that's when the fascinating twist comes in: my brain is not ever satisfied. Because no matter how much I want the story to continue, how much I want the characters to survive, how much I want to believe that we can escape death (because that's what this is about, isn't it? That's why I read it after all), there's a voice in my head whispering: But if they make it, won't I be a disappointed? By choosing this title, Adam Silvera makes a promise. And I guess each reader gets to decide how much they want him to keep it.

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They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera

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Main content warnings include: death, grief, suicide, gun violence, hospitals

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A Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee

Henry “Monty” Montague was born and bred to be a gentleman, but he was never one to be tamed. The finest boarding schools in England and the constant disapproval of his father haven’t been able to curb any of his roguish passions—not for gambling halls, late nights spent with a bottle of spirits, or waking up in the arms of women or men. But as Monty embarks on his Grand Tour of Europe, his quest for a life filled with pleasure and vice is in danger of coming to an end. Not only does his father expect him to take over the family’s estate upon his return, but Monty is also nursing an impossible crush on his best friend and traveling companion, Percy. Still it isn’t in Monty’s nature to give up. Even with his younger sister, Felicity, in tow, he vows to make this yearlong escapade one last hedonistic hurrah and flirt with Percy from Paris to Rome. But when one of Monty’s reckless decisions turns their trip abroad into a harrowing manhunt that spans across Europe, it calls into question everything he knows, including his relationship with the boy he adores.

From Mackenzi Lee's official website

I started reading A Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue on a friend's recommendation. The only thing I knew about it was that it would fit the request I presented my friend with: please I beg of you, are there any novels with queer characters you'd recommend? (”I LITERALLY JUST FINISHED MY LATEST GAY YA FAVOURITE BOOK”, she answered) (I am blessed with the greatest friends)

I didn’t know anything else about it and it's a good thing that I didn't. I usually shy away from period fiction. I always feel like my knowledge of history is extremely limited; my knowledge of past ways of life, politics and inner workings of society even more so. It comes with the frustration of being unable to picture things accurately, places, rooms, clothing, etc. and always feeling like I've got no idea of what's really at stake in the bigger picture. 

Does picturing accurate furniture matter that much? Probably not but my impostor syndrome sometimes goes as far as telling me that I'm not good enough to read or watch or enjoy said or said material and so I should just not even try at all. So when I started the book, my first impression was disappointment- not at all related to the book itself, only to the conviction that I wouldn't nearly enjoy it as much as a modern setting. I almost dropped the book there (yeah, I am easily deterred. I am working on it.) But I needed a book win. I needed a comforting read before bed, a cosy book and sofa weekend. 

Gentleman's Guide looks like a regular young adult adventure novel in which the main character, Monty, embarks on a coming-of-age journey around Europe with his best friend. To his great despair, his annoying little sister and a guardian appointed by their piece-of-shit-of-a father are tagging along for the journey. Now if we should tackle only some of the things that doesn’t make this a regular young adult adventure novel, I’d go like this:

Monty is an openly bisexual man in love with his best friend

said best friend Percy is a man of color raised by a white family in a country that hasn’t abolished slavery all that long ago

Felicity, the little sister, is as all women incredibly underestimated and mostly dubbed annoying because she knows her shit in a world where everyone expect her to be easy on the eyes and silent

The fact that the world is prejudiced against each of them for different reasons doesn’t necessarily bring them together but definitely makes you want them to catch a break and, maybe just maybe, find an actual feeling of freedom. 

The book is written from Monty’s point-of-view, who is neither gentlemanly nor virtuous, despite what people expect him to be. He is the kind of loud-mouthed idiot who simply can’t ever seem able to do or say the right thing and generally has the worst timing ever- even (and especially) when he tries his best, and that will make you love him intensely. Worth mentionning, his self-esteem is inversely proportional to the strength of his pining for Percy and both those unrelated facts will repeatedly make your heart implode (and remind you of the best fanfictions you have ever read). 

This is about where the review ends- not that I wouldn’t touch some other themes of the book but I wouldn’t want to spoil some discoveries to whoever might read it later. Just know that the novel didn’t just do a good job of entertaining me over a weekend (I read it in three days which is not usually a thing I do) Mackenzi Lee also impressed me in her choices of exploring specific themes and positively surprised me with the message she chose to conclude with (which is significantly less vague that this sentence I just wrote).

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A Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee Part 1 of the Montague Siblings series.

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Main content warnings include: homophobia, racism, sexism, ableism, domestic violence, PTSD, alcoholism, mental health issues and mental health stigma (yeah it’s a long list)

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J'ai commencé à écrire quelque chose.

« Commencé », je dis, comme si c'était un truc énorme. J'ai commencé et fini, en terme de début et de fin en tous cas. En terme de qualité et de cohérence on en est loin, mais bon.

C'est juste quelques pensées qui m'ont traversée et que j'aimais bien, juste quelques pensées que j'essaie de mettre en forme, en fiction. En quelque chose.

C'est dur. J'ai envie de m'y tenir pour l'exercice mais wow, ce serait tellement plus simple de tout jeter. Ça me démange vraiment. Ça commence en prose et ça se transforme en poème, puis à un moment les mots rebasculent en vers- c'est du n'importe quoi.

C'est un peu mon mode par défaut, les vers. Je sais pas pourquoi. Il doit y avoir un truc dans le rythme qui me porte, les mots s'alignent en battements.

Peu importe combien j'essaie de les contrer, les mots me viennent en rimes ou en pieds.

Merde.

J'ai juste envie de pouvoir le faire, en vrai. De me prouver que je peux le faire. Que c'est pas encore une envie juste en passant qui redisparait au bout de dix jours, que mon rapport à l'écriture est pas enterré, passé, aboli. Je sais très bien qu'écrire a toujours été en moi, toute ma vie, alors putain je veux juste que ça sorte, que ce soit là dehors, que ça existe. Que ça me fasse exister peut-être.

Même si c'est quelques lignes, même si c'est insignifiant. Particulièrement si c'est insignifiant. Je veux m'autoriser à écrire ses trucs banals, des trucs sans valeur obligée, sans enjeu, écrire des trucs juste pour écrire.

Écrire, écrire, écrire, écrire, j'ai l'impression que c'est un synonyme pour respirer.

Si je retrouve mon souffle, on se retrouve ici.

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Il y a quelques jours, on m’a offert un livre. 

J’avais peur de le poser sur l’étagère et de ne plus jamais y toucher, alors je l’ai ouvert. Quarante-huit heures plus tard, je l’avais lu. Trois cent et quelques pages, j’ai envie de dire un bouleversement mais le mot me parait trop bouillonnant, trop mouvementé, tout était plutôt calme dans mes pensées et mes souvenirs, mes émotions, même si intenses, presque en douceur, pas brutalement, juste, là, entre parenthèses du reste de ma vie, un cocon au milieu du quotidien. Un récit qui est entré en moi, qui y restera, au moins un moment je crois. Qui continuera de délivrer bien après la lecture. 

J’ai remercié l’amie qui me l’a offert en un long mail de m’avoir confié ce livre si touchant, pour mille raisons qui n’appartiennent qu’à moi et mille autres qui n’appartiennent qu’à elle. J’ai commencé en disant “je ne suis pas vraiment douée quand il s’agit de donner mon avis sur une oeuvre” ou “j'ai du mal avec les mots”, ou autre version de cette chose que j’écris souvent pour commencer (commencer quoi ? A peu près toute chose que j’essaie d’écrire). Proposition préemptive à tout potentiel jugement, comme un disclaimer, une phrase clé qui me dédouane et me permet de poser tous les mots qui me traversent la tête sans avoir à passer des heures à les remettre en question (seulement au moins vingt minutes, parce que tout de même, ça reste moi)

J’ai pas du mal avec les mots, en vrai. Je les aime beaucoup, les mots. J’aime en jouer, j’aime me laisser surprendre par eux quand j’écris, les voir s’enchaîner, créer un rythme que j’ai jamais demandé, jamais intentionné. J’ai juste du mal à les laisser s’écrire, les mots. A me laisser écrire, les mots. A m’autoriser, me créer, m’approprier un moment juste à moi, à moi et aux mots, abandonnant le reste du monde, pensant à autre chose que ce qui peut bien se passer pendant ce moment d’abandon. 

J’écrivais beaucoup, avant. D’ailleurs souvent je parle comme si j’écrivais toujours, alors qu’en réalité, pas vraiment. Le nouvel an souvent m’amène une vague de mots, comme une fausse tentative de résolution de “me remettre à écrire”, trois ans d’affilée au moins que je sais parfaitement que ça tiendra pas, mais je tente quand même parce que tant que les mots sont là, et bah... je leur dois bien ça, je sais pas. “Je peux bien m’offrir ça”, je crois. 

A dix ans, j’avais une clé usb à moi, et dessus des documents Word avec des histoires. Des histoires que j’écrivais pour moi, que je faisais lire à ma mère, mais qui n’existaient pas en dehors de ça. Plus tard est venu le temps des fanfics, bien que j’en écrivais bien plus que le nombre que je publiais, et que j’en lisais évidemment bien plus encore. D’autres lisaient mes mots. Et ça se passait pas si mal que ça.

Après, je sais pas. L’écriture s’est arrêtée; faute de temps, faute d’envie, faute d’envie d’y consacrer mon temps restant, faute de courage de continuer de présenter mes mots aux yeux du monde (dans mon esprit, tout est toujours grand, le monde, les regards, leur nombre). Faute de pouvoir bloquer le monde extérieur suffisamment longtemps tout en se disant que ça en vaut la peine, faute de réussir à m’autoriser une parenthèse, un moment, où le monde continue de tourner mais quitte mes pensées. Comme si en me tournant vers moi, je risquais de rater ce qui se passe dehors, comme si baisser ma garde sur l’extérieur c’était autoriser l’univers à tout foutre en l’air, et c’était bien de ma faute, vu que j’avais arrêter de le surveiller. Je sais pas.

Je sais jamais trop comment expliquer, Comment J’ai Arrêté d’Ecrire. J’ai pas décidé, c’était pas un jour particulier, c’est juste arrivé. Quand je m’en suis aperçu, ça m’a paru trop tard, trop loin, pour recommencer. 

Un moment, je me suis demandé si j’avais arrêté d’écrire parce que je n’en avais plus besoin; ou si ce qui faisait que j’en avais besoin avait pris le dessus, que l’anxiété avait rongé mon besoin évident d’écrire, rongé mon moi au point de me voler l’usage de mon art, et que sans que je m’en aperçoive, peut-être que je m’étais abandonnée. 

Ce livre que j’ai lu, cette lettre que j’ai écrite (l’avoir tapée dans l’éditeur d’une boite de messagerie n’en fait finalement rien de moins qu’une lettre couchant les émotions sur le papier- érigeant les émotions sur l’écran), ça m’a redonné l’envie d’écrire. Pour combien de temps, je sais pas. Pour qui, pour quoi, qu’est-ce que tu vas raconter, qui ça intéressera, je sais pas, mais viens, pour une fois, on fait semblant, on dit qu’on s’en fout, on verra bien. On fait de promesse à personne, même pas à nous-même, on est déjà plus loin qu’on croyait arriver, alors, voilà. On fait ça. 

Pas de règle. De la prose si j’ai envie, ou des vers en rime, en français ça serait bien mais en anglais c’est plus facile alors sûrement que si ça tient, on s’y laissera glisser aussi, si ça tient. (En relisant, je m’aperçois que j’ai écrit deux fois, “si ça tient”. J’ai décidé de les laisser là, soulignons à quel point j’y crois). Et peut-être bien qu’il y aura d’autres photos, c’était pour ça qu’il était là, ce blog, à la base, tu te souviens ?

Juste, construire un espace. Pour le reste, on verra. 

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J’ai lu Le livre que je ne voulais pas écrire, de Erwan Larher. Et après, j’ai voulu prendre beaucoup de gens dans mes bras.

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