Literature & Fiction
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Turtles All the Way Down
The critically acclaimed, instant #1 bestseller by John Green, author of The Anthropocene Reviewed and The Fault in Our Stars
"A tender story about learning to cope when the world feels out of control." -People
"A sometimes heartbreaking, always illuminating, glimpse into how it feels to live with mental illness." – NPR
John Green, the award-winning, international bestselling author of The Anthropocene Reviewed, returns with a story of shattering, unflinching clarity in this brilliant novel of love, resilience, and the power of lifelong friendship.
Aza Holmes never intended to pursuethe disappearance of fugitive billionaire Russell Pickett, but there's a hundred-thousand-dollar reward at stake and her Best and Most Fearless Friend, Daisy, is eager to investigate. So together, they navigate the short distance and broad divides that separate them from Pickett's son Davis.
Aza is trying. She is trying to be a good daughter, a good friend, a good student, and maybe even a good detective, while also living within the ever-tightening spiral of her own thoughts.
"A tender story about learning to cope when the world feels out of control." -People
"A sometimes heartbreaking, always illuminating, glimpse into how it feels to live with mental illness." – NPR
John Green, the award-winning, international bestselling author of The Anthropocene Reviewed, returns with a story of shattering, unflinching clarity in this brilliant novel of love, resilience, and the power of lifelong friendship.
Aza Holmes never intended to pursuethe disappearance of fugitive billionaire Russell Pickett, but there's a hundred-thousand-dollar reward at stake and her Best and Most Fearless Friend, Daisy, is eager to investigate. So together, they navigate the short distance and broad divides that separate them from Pickett's son Davis.
Aza is trying. She is trying to be a good daughter, a good friend, a good student, and maybe even a good detective, while also living within the ever-tightening spiral of her own thoughts.
Editorial Reviews
ONE
At the time I first realized I might be fictional, my weekdays were spent at a publicly funded institution on the north side of Indianapolis called White River High School, where I was required to eat lunch at a particular time-between 12:37 p.m. and 1:14 p.m.-by forces so much larger than myself that I couldn't even begin to identify them. If those forces had given me a different lunch period, or if the tablemates who helped author my fate had chosen a different topic of conversation that September day, I would've met a different end-or at least a different middle. But I was -beginning to learn that your life is a story told about you, not one that you tell.
Of course, you pretend to be the author. You have to. You think, I now choose to go to lunch, when that monotone beep rings from on high at 12:37. But really, the bell decides. You think you're the painter, but you're the canvas.
Hundreds of voices were shouting over one another in the cafeteria, so that the conversation became mere sound, the rushing of a river over rocks. And as I sat beneath fluorescent cylinders spewing aggressively artificial light, I thought about how we all believed ourselves to be the hero of some personal epic, when in fact we were basically identical organisms colonizing a vast and windowless room that smelled of Lysol and lard.
I was eating a peanut butter and honey sandwich and drinking a Dr Pepper. To be honest, I find the whole process of masticating plants and animals and then shoving them down my esophagus kind of disgusting, so I was trying not to think about the fact that I was eating, which is a form of thinking about it.
Across the table from me, Mychal Turner was scribbling in a yellow-paper notebook. Our lunch table was like a long-running play on Broadway: The cast changed over the years, but the roles never did. Mychal was The Artsy One. He was talking with Daisy Ramirez, who'd played the role of my Best and Most Fearless Friend since elementary school, but I couldn't follow their conversation over the noise of all the others.
What was my part in this play? The Sidekick. I was Daisy's Friend, or Ms. Holmes's Daughter. I was somebody's something.
I felt my stomach begin to work on the sandwich, and even over everybody's talking, I could hear it digesting, all the bacteria chewing the slime of peanut butter-the students inside of me eating at my internal cafeteria. A shiver convulsed through me.
"Didn't you go to camp with him?" Daisy asked me.
"With who?"
"Davis Pickett," she said.
At the time I first realized I might be fictional, my weekdays were spent at a publicly funded institution on the north side of Indianapolis called White River High School, where I was required to eat lunch at a particular time-between 12:37 p.m. and 1:14 p.m.-by forces so much larger than myself that I couldn't even begin to identify them. If those forces had given me a different lunch period, or if the tablemates who helped author my fate had chosen a different topic of conversation that September day, I would've met a different end-or at least a different middle. But I was -beginning to learn that your life is a story told about you, not one that you tell.
Of course, you pretend to be the author. You have to. You think, I now choose to go to lunch, when that monotone beep rings from on high at 12:37. But really, the bell decides. You think you're the painter, but you're the canvas.
Hundreds of voices were shouting over one another in the cafeteria, so that the conversation became mere sound, the rushing of a river over rocks. And as I sat beneath fluorescent cylinders spewing aggressively artificial light, I thought about how we all believed ourselves to be the hero of some personal epic, when in fact we were basically identical organisms colonizing a vast and windowless room that smelled of Lysol and lard.
I was eating a peanut butter and honey sandwich and drinking a Dr Pepper. To be honest, I find the whole process of masticating plants and animals and then shoving them down my esophagus kind of disgusting, so I was trying not to think about the fact that I was eating, which is a form of thinking about it.
Across the table from me, Mychal Turner was scribbling in a yellow-paper notebook. Our lunch table was like a long-running play on Broadway: The cast changed over the years, but the roles never did. Mychal was The Artsy One. He was talking with Daisy Ramirez, who'd played the role of my Best and Most Fearless Friend since elementary school, but I couldn't follow their conversation over the noise of all the others.
What was my part in this play? The Sidekick. I was Daisy's Friend, or Ms. Holmes's Daughter. I was somebody's something.
I felt my stomach begin to work on the sandwich, and even over everybody's talking, I could hear it digesting, all the bacteria chewing the slime of peanut butter-the students inside of me eating at my internal cafeteria. A shiver convulsed through me.
"Didn't you go to camp with him?" Daisy asked me.
"With who?"
"Davis Pickett," she said.
Readers Top Reviews
J. Ang RashidaR
As a follow up to the phenomenal “The Fault in Our Stars”, my expectations were pretty high for this YA novel. I can’t say I was disappointed, because Green had created in 16-year-old Aza Holmes a believable and very identifiable character who is easy to root for. While the previous novel featured teenagers suffering from terminal illnesses, Aza too suffers from sickness, only it’s a form of mental illness. A very tricky and sensitive subject, but so relevant among the young these days. Thankfully, Green is adept enough not to turn Aza into a tired stereotype and poster girl for someone who trumps over her illness and lives happy ever after. The novel is narrated from her point of view so the reader develops a strong sense of empathy over her seemingly irrational fears of being infected with C-diff, and being hyper aware of her body being made up of microorganisms that she has no control over. So far, those are the good points. High school is a difficult place to navigate for any teenager, so it is a minefield for Aza, with the added burden of OCD and paranoia. So it is a little unreal how much of her school experience is ellipted from the narrative, sheltered as she is by protective best friend Daisy, whose sidekick role is given quite a boost with her Star Wars fanfic writer status and of course fearless nature, and her motto “Break hearts not promises”. Given the main storyline promises to be about the two Nancy Drews trying to solve the case of a missing multi-millionaire, who just happens to be the father of one of Aza’s childhood friend, the story almost takes a turn in that direction, and yet it doesn’t, not really. Instead a budding love story eclipses that story arc, but then Green is also keen to throw in the buddy relationship between Aza and Daisy, so that takes over some two-thirds in as well. It seems with this novel, Green is attempting to keep too many balls in the air all at once, which makes it only a matter of time that some inconsistencies get through. I can’t quite understand how someone with acute OCD and who gargles antiseptic hand soap to get rid of germs she is afraid of ingesting from kissing someone, could be fine with jumping into an unsterilised pool in the biting cold, and then just drying off without a shower to wander around her boyfriend's house after that. She also wanders through an underground art gallery in a rat-infested tunnel at one point with Daisy. These instances seem quite glaring to me, given Aza’s struggle with these issues is so integral to the plot and her characterisation. Nonetheless, I would still give this novel 3.5 stars for the memorable lines and strong dialogue.
Warda (i.reads)J.
“Your now is not your forever.” ― John Green, Turtles All the Way Down Wow. This book was stunning. Hard to read (trigger warnings for OCD and anxiety), but Jesus, did it feel healing at the same time. John Green wrote the shit out of this book. The way mental health was portrayed through Aza was excruciating, harrowing and educational to read about and it still made me feel that though the stigma might have lessened a bit, the understanding of this subject is narrow. I felt this book to my core. I was there with Aza when she was spiralling out of control, her mind constantly pulling her in different directions, finding no centre, the constant doubt hurling you further into finding no fixed point, so that you may breathe and focus. I've so much admiration for Green for writing so openly in this book. It was so raw and bleak and the ugly side of mental health truly came to live, because that's how it is and what it can manifest into. And though, it may seem difficult to find hope, a way to see the light at the end of the tunnel that seems never-reaching, it is there. It is tangible and can be found.
JennyinneverlandW
If you know me, you’ll know that I love John Green. I adore all of his books and I’m pretty much a walking cliché for it. So naturally, I’ve been waiting for Turtles All the way Down for years… like, literally yeas. I ordered it the day it came out and a few days later, it was on my doorstep. First of all… I have to admit that I cried when I saw the special dust jacket cover which has a poster of all his most famous book quotes from his previous books. So yeah, that happened. But anyway… onto this book. I have a lot to say so I’m going to review it a little different, in sections rather than one great big whack of writing. What’s it about? Turtles All the Way Down is about Aza and her best friend Daisy who discover that a billionaire in their town has gone missing. Not only that, there’s a huge reward for anyone who can help locate him. And not only that, Aza used to be good friends with his son. Aza and Davis become close and have to navigate through their relationship and their own issues, including Aza’s severe OCD and mental health problems. Storyline Admittedly, it wasn’t the most riveting storyline in terms of action. The billionaire storyline probably wasn’t strictly needed but unlike so many others, I actually really liked it winding through the main elements which is firmly Aza’s OCD and anxiety (more on that later). I thought the missing billionaire element could have been a bit “more” but I also understand that it was more about Davis and his brother, Noah’s reaction to their negligent, missing dad rather than the dad himself. Mental health & Aza John Green did an amazing job with Aza. Written from her point of view, you get a real, raw sense of what it’s like being in the mind of someone with OCD. Although I have anxiety, I don’t have OCD nor do I know too much about it and the thought processes that people with the condition have on a daily basis. But this book truly made me understand more. If you’re one of those people that say something is, “a little bit OCD” then I would highly suggest you read this book because I guarantee you will stop saying something so insensitive after reading it. It was heart-breaking at times, seeing Aza’s constant struggle with her own mind. It’s quite obvious that Green went through extensive research for this character and her condition. We’ve all read books with mental health themes which weren’t sensitive or accurate and generally just got it really wrong but John Green knows what he’s doing, he understands and you can tell that straight away from this book. He doesn’t try and make Aza anything she’s not. She is what she is, thinks how she thinks and that’s that, we take her or leave her but we’re also led to sympathise with her and really feel for her as a character. Characters Aside from Aza who I’ve gone in to, I absolutely loved ...
KATE OLSONJennyin
No traditional review of this one…..I just can’t. I got it at school at 11:40 am on release day and finished it at 6:25 pm and it BROKE. MY. HEART. It’s the most powerful and open book about mental illness that I have read, and it’s required reading for everyone, but especially those who don’t understand the intensity of OCD and extreme anxiety. It is unlike any of his other work, but it’s still funny and it’s still so so sad, but it’s also Green’s OWN struggle. Go read his interview with NYT and try to tell me you didn’t want to cry. And if I see even ONE “but it’s not like TFIOS” whiny review…….don’t get me started. Read this book. Work through the discomfort. Honor his pain.
Kelseykirtida gau
I love John Green. Heck, I have a quote from Looking For Alaska tattooed on my arm. But, if you have ever dealt with extreme OCD - don't read this! I dealt with diagnosed extreme OCD from ages 6-12. You are constantly in the girl's head. So, her obsessive thoughts become yours and there is no break from it. I was driving myself crazy and my OCD thoughts were increasing. So, if you are easily triggered, don't read this. If someone wants an insight to how the OCD mind works, it may be worth a read - but I couldn't even get into the story, let alone the incessant thoughts.
Short Excerpt Teaser
ONE
At the time I first realized I might be fictional, my weekdays were spent at a publicly funded institution on the north side of Indianapolis called White River High School, where I was required to eat lunch at a particular time-between 12:37 p.m. and 1:14 p.m.-by forces so much larger than myself that I couldn't even begin to identify them. If those forces had given me a different lunch period, or if the tablemates who helped author my fate had chosen a different topic of conversation that September day, I would've met a different end-or at least a different middle. But I was -beginning to learn that your life is a story told about you, not one that you tell.
Of course, you pretend to be the author. You have to. You think, I now choose to go to lunch, when that monotone beep rings from on high at 12:37. But really, the bell decides. You think you're the painter, but you're the canvas.
Hundreds of voices were shouting over one another in the cafeteria, so that the conversation became mere sound, the rushing of a river over rocks. And as I sat beneath fluorescent cylinders spewing aggressively artificial light, I thought about how we all believed ourselves to be the hero of some personal epic, when in fact we were basically identical organisms colonizing a vast and windowless room that smelled of Lysol and lard.
I was eating a peanut butter and honey sandwich and drinking a Dr Pepper. To be honest, I find the whole process of masticating plants and animals and then shoving them down my esophagus kind of disgusting, so I was trying not to think about the fact that I was eating, which is a form of thinking about it.
Across the table from me, Mychal Turner was scribbling in a yellow-paper notebook. Our lunch table was like a long-running play on Broadway: The cast changed over the years, but the roles never did. Mychal was The Artsy One. He was talking with Daisy Ramirez, who'd played the role of my Best and Most Fearless Friend since elementary school, but I couldn't follow their conversation over the noise of all the others.
What was my part in this play? The Sidekick. I was Daisy's Friend, or Ms. Holmes's Daughter. I was somebody's something.
I felt my stomach begin to work on the sandwich, and even over everybody's talking, I could hear it digesting, all the bacteria chewing the slime of peanut butter-the students inside of me eating at my internal cafeteria. A shiver convulsed through me.
"Didn't you go to camp with him?" Daisy asked me.
"With who?"
"Davis Pickett," she said.
"Yeah," I said. "Why?"
"Aren't you listening?" Daisy asked. I am listening, I thought, to the cacophony of my digestive tract. Of course I'd long known that I was playing host to a massive collection of parasitic organisms, but I didn't much like being reminded of it. By cell count, humans are approximately 50 percent microbial, meaning that about half of the cells that make you up are not yours at all. There are something like a thousand times more microbes living in my particular biome than there are human beings on earth, and it often seems like I can feel them living and breeding and dying in and on me. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans and tried to control my breathing. Admittedly, I have some anxiety problems, but I would argue it isn't irrational to be concerned about the fact that you are a skin-encased bacterial colony.
Mychal said, "His dad was about to be arrested for bribery or something, but the night before the raid he disappeared. There's a hundred-thousand-dollar reward out for him."
"And you know his kid," Daisy said.
"Knew him," I answered.
I watched Daisy attack her school-provided rectangular pizza and green beans with a fork. She kept glancing up at me, her eyes widening as if to say, Well ? I could tell she wanted me to ask her about something, but I couldn't tell what, because my stomach wouldn't shut up, which was forcing me deep inside a worry that I'd somehow contracted a parasitic infection.
I could half hear Mychal telling Daisy about his new art project, in which he was using Photoshop to average the faces of a hundred people named Mychal, and the average of their faces wou...
At the time I first realized I might be fictional, my weekdays were spent at a publicly funded institution on the north side of Indianapolis called White River High School, where I was required to eat lunch at a particular time-between 12:37 p.m. and 1:14 p.m.-by forces so much larger than myself that I couldn't even begin to identify them. If those forces had given me a different lunch period, or if the tablemates who helped author my fate had chosen a different topic of conversation that September day, I would've met a different end-or at least a different middle. But I was -beginning to learn that your life is a story told about you, not one that you tell.
Of course, you pretend to be the author. You have to. You think, I now choose to go to lunch, when that monotone beep rings from on high at 12:37. But really, the bell decides. You think you're the painter, but you're the canvas.
Hundreds of voices were shouting over one another in the cafeteria, so that the conversation became mere sound, the rushing of a river over rocks. And as I sat beneath fluorescent cylinders spewing aggressively artificial light, I thought about how we all believed ourselves to be the hero of some personal epic, when in fact we were basically identical organisms colonizing a vast and windowless room that smelled of Lysol and lard.
I was eating a peanut butter and honey sandwich and drinking a Dr Pepper. To be honest, I find the whole process of masticating plants and animals and then shoving them down my esophagus kind of disgusting, so I was trying not to think about the fact that I was eating, which is a form of thinking about it.
Across the table from me, Mychal Turner was scribbling in a yellow-paper notebook. Our lunch table was like a long-running play on Broadway: The cast changed over the years, but the roles never did. Mychal was The Artsy One. He was talking with Daisy Ramirez, who'd played the role of my Best and Most Fearless Friend since elementary school, but I couldn't follow their conversation over the noise of all the others.
What was my part in this play? The Sidekick. I was Daisy's Friend, or Ms. Holmes's Daughter. I was somebody's something.
I felt my stomach begin to work on the sandwich, and even over everybody's talking, I could hear it digesting, all the bacteria chewing the slime of peanut butter-the students inside of me eating at my internal cafeteria. A shiver convulsed through me.
"Didn't you go to camp with him?" Daisy asked me.
"With who?"
"Davis Pickett," she said.
"Yeah," I said. "Why?"
"Aren't you listening?" Daisy asked. I am listening, I thought, to the cacophony of my digestive tract. Of course I'd long known that I was playing host to a massive collection of parasitic organisms, but I didn't much like being reminded of it. By cell count, humans are approximately 50 percent microbial, meaning that about half of the cells that make you up are not yours at all. There are something like a thousand times more microbes living in my particular biome than there are human beings on earth, and it often seems like I can feel them living and breeding and dying in and on me. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans and tried to control my breathing. Admittedly, I have some anxiety problems, but I would argue it isn't irrational to be concerned about the fact that you are a skin-encased bacterial colony.
Mychal said, "His dad was about to be arrested for bribery or something, but the night before the raid he disappeared. There's a hundred-thousand-dollar reward out for him."
"And you know his kid," Daisy said.
"Knew him," I answered.
I watched Daisy attack her school-provided rectangular pizza and green beans with a fork. She kept glancing up at me, her eyes widening as if to say, Well ? I could tell she wanted me to ask her about something, but I couldn't tell what, because my stomach wouldn't shut up, which was forcing me deep inside a worry that I'd somehow contracted a parasitic infection.
I could half hear Mychal telling Daisy about his new art project, in which he was using Photoshop to average the faces of a hundred people named Mychal, and the average of their faces wou...
