Review of Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher
When I picked up Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher, I was eager to immerse myself in what many hailed as a poignant exploration of teen struggles. Yet, as I turned each page, I felt an increasingly uncomfortable disquiet that I couldn’t shake off. It’s a book that’s evoked a strong, sometimes polarized reaction, and it’s time I lay my thoughts bare.
At its heart, Thirteen Reasons Why traces the haunting aftermath of Hannah Baker’s suicide, encapsulated in a series of cassette tapes she leaves behind. Through these recordings, she details the thirteen individuals she blames for her demise. The premise has an undeniable allure—a riveting mystery intertwined with real-world implications. However, I found myself grappling with a troubling aspect: the glamorization of Hannah’s tragic end.
While Asher’s writing is undeniably engaging, with a narrative that flows seamlessly from Hannah’s reflections to Clay’s emotional responses, I found that it inadvertently romanticizes her death. Hannah becomes an almost mythical figure whose suicide serves as a catalyst for revelations among her peers. Instead of debunking the dangerous myths surrounding suicide, it seemed to reinforce them. It fed into the notion that her death would instigate change, evoking feelings of sympathy rather than the sobering reality of loss.
As I read, I wrestled with the discomforting thought that Hannah’s journey might be perceived as a tragic hero arc. The dramatic weight of her decision grants her a certain power over those she leaves behind, compelling them to confront their actions. However, this portrayal feels incomplete and misleading. The narrative lacks the depth of real-world consequences; it sidesteps the grim truth that suicide ends all hopes of redemption or growth.
I found myself more than once reflecting on the lives of the characters beyond Hannah’s tapes. What about Jessica, the rape victim, whose trauma is overshadowed by Hannah’s narrative? The book’s structure complicates moral responsibility, leaving some characters unscathed while condemning others for lesser offenses. It raises questions about accountability that the story doesn’t fully address, leaving readers—and the characters—mired in ambiguity.
In terms of its literary merits, Asher’s writing style is both accessible and evocative, drawing the reader into Clay’s internal conflict and Hannah’s despair. Yet, I struggled to reconcile this with a portrayal of serious issues that seemingly lacked nuance. One might even feel that Hannah’s anger is disproportionate; how can the nuanced emotional landscape of teenage life be captured in a format that flattens complexity into a series of grievances?
Despite my reservations, I can appreciate why many resonate with this book. The raw emotion and urgency can strike a chord with teens grappling with their own struggles. If you’re looking for a narrative that provokes conversation and thought about mental health, this might serve as a powerful jumping-off point. However, I’d urge readers to approach it with critical eyes—recognizing the fine line between raising awareness and glamorizing pain.
In conclusion, while Thirteen Reasons Why engages readers with its haunting premise, I walk away feeling that the depiction of suicide and its aftermath demand a more profound introspection than this narrative can provide. It’s essential for us to discuss the real impacts of these stories—even the uncomfortable truths—so that, together, we can foster understanding and empathy rather than allow glamorized myths to persist.