It tends to bum me out to watch most journalists interview John Green about Turtles All the Way Down. They almost always steer the conversation back to his OCD, as if that single detail explains the book and the writer. All of Green’s work emphasizes how critical it is to imagine people complexly.

Something about Submarine feels like opening a shoebox full of embarrassing teenage memories. It’s awkward as hell. It’s hilarious. It’s tragic, but not in a sad sort of way. It’s a romp through the socially underdeveloped life of Oliver Tate and a few other characters who you grow to hate so much you love.