I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar.
I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar.
If we'd put them in a vase in the living room, they would have been everyone's flowers. I wanted them to be my flowers.
Oh, I wouldn't mind, Hazel Grace. It would be a privilege to have my heart broken by you.
Take a picture of this so Isaac can see it when they invent robot eyes.
The weird thing about houses is that they almost always look like nothing is happening inside of them, even though they contain most of our lives. I wondered if that was sort of the point of architecture.
While I did not fancy myself a particularly good person, I never thought my first real sexual action would be prostitutional.
All representations of a thing are inherently abstract.
Finally, I decided that the proper strategy was to stare back. Boys do not have a monopoly on the Staring Business.
I had a moral opposition to eating before dawn on the grounds that I was not a nineteenth-century Russian peasant fortifying myself for a day in the fields.
I'll fight it. I'll fight it for you. Don't you worry about me, Hazel Grace. I'm okay. I'll find a way to hang around and annoy you for a long time.
Only now that I loved a grenade did I understand the foolishness of trying to save others from my own impending fragmentation: I couldn't unlove Augustus Waters. And I didn't want to.
Thank you for explaining that my eye cancer isn't going to make me deaf. I feel so fortunate that an intellectual giant like yourself would deign to operate on me.
The world is not a wish-granting factory.
Writing does not resurrect. It buries.
And okay, fair enough, but there is this unwritten contract between author and reader and I think not ending your book kind of violates that contract.
Funerals, I had decided, are for the living.
I hadn't read a real series like that since I was a kid, and it was exciting to live again in an infinite fiction.
I'm a grenade and at some point I'm going to blow up and I would like to minimize the casualties, okay?
Our fearlessness shall be our secret weapon.
That was the worst part about having cancer, sometimes: The physical evidence of disease separates you from other people.
The world went on, as it does, without my full participation, and I only woke up from the reverie when someone said my name.
You can't know, sweetie, because you've never had a baby become a brilliant young reader with a side interest in horrible television shows, but the joy you bring us is so much greater than the sadness we feel about your illness.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories