And then I was asleep. That deep, can-still-taste-her-in-my-mouth sleep, that sleep that is not particularly restful but difficult to wake up from all the same.
Getting pissed wouldn't fix it. Damn it.
I ran like a cheetah - well, like a cheetah that smoked too much.
It was not an eventful day. I should have done extraordinary things. I should have sucked the marrow out of life. But on that day, I slept eighteen hours out of a possible twenty-four.
She's just playing a trick on us. This is just an Alaska Young Prank Extraordinaire. It's Alaska being Alaska, funny and playful and not knowing when or how to put on the brakes.
We are as indestructible as we believe ourselves to be.
A Margo for each of us--and each more mirror than window.
Do you guys remember that time when we were all definitely going to die and then Ben grabbed the steering wheel and dodged a ginormous freaking cow and spun the car like the teacups at Disney World and we didn't die?
I'm not up for laughing, but their laughter makes the room feel safer, so we begin to explore.
Maybe all the strings inside him broke.
Talking to a drunk person was like talking to an extremely happy, severely brain-damaged three-year-old.
We can hear others, and we can travel with them without moving, and we can imagine them, and we are all connected one to the other by a crazy root system, like so many leaves of grass. But the game makes me wonder wheter we can really ever fully become another.
At some point, I realized I was Kaitlyning the encounter, so I decided to text Kaitlyn and ask for some advice.
He called out to his fellow monks,'Come quickly I am tasting stars.
I like this world. I like drinking champagne. I like not smoking. I like Dutch people speaking Dutch.
It's almost as if the way you imagine my dead self says more about you than it says about either the person I was or the whatever I am now.
People will say it's sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it's not sad, Van Houten. It's triumphant. It's heroic. Isn't that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: Frst, do no harm.
That's what we should do, Hazel Grace: We should team up and be this disabled vigilante duo roaring through the world, righting wrongs, defending the weak, protecting the endangered.
They were angry, I thought. Horrified. These teenagers, with their hormones, making out beneath a video broadcasting the shattered voice of a former father.
You have a choice in this world, I believe, about how to tell sad stories, and we made the funny choice.
And then something invisible snapped insider her, and that which had come together commenced to fall apart.
How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering?
I vaguely hoped that someone would come up and talk to me.
It's not life or death, the labyrinth. Suffering. Doing wrong and having wrong things happen to you. That's the problem. Bolivar was talking about the pain, not about the living or dying. How do you get out of the labyrinth of suffering?
Sunlight feels warm and rough against your skin like a kiss on the cheek from your dad.
We are engaged here in the most important pusuit in history. The search for meaning. What is What is the nature of being a person? What is the best way to go about being a person?How did we come to be, and wha will become of us when we are no longer? In short: What are the rules this game, and how might we best play it?
A paper town for a paper girl.
Doing stuff never feels as good as you hope it will feel.
Imagining isn't perfect. You can't get all the way inside someone else...But imagining being someone else, or the world being something else, is the only way in. It is the machine that kills fascists.
Maybe by imagining these futures we can make them real, and maybe not, but either way we must imagine them.
That doesn't sound like my Margo", she said, and I thought of my Margo, and all of us looking at her reflection in different funhouse mirrors.
We imagine people as animals or gods. -But she was just a person, a girl.
At the end, we brought her to New York, where I was living, for a series of experimental tortures that increased the misery of her days without increasing the number of them.
He puts the killing thing in his mouth but doesn't give it the power to kill him.
I liked being a person. I wanted to keep at it.
It's hard as hell to hold on to your dignity when the risen sun is too bright in your losing eyes, and that's what I was thinking about as we hunted for bad guys through the ruins of a city that didn't exist.
She had this dark cancer water dripping out of her chest. Eyes closed. Intubated. But her hand was still her hand, still warm and the nails painted this almost black dark blue and I just held her hand and tried to imagine the world without us and for about one second I was a good enough person to hope she died so she would never know that I was going, too. But then I wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar.
The book was turned to the page with Anne Frank's name, but what got me about it was the fact that right beneath her name there were four Aron Franks. FOUR. Four Aron Franks without museums, without historical markers, without anyone to mourn them. I silently resolved to remember and pray for the four Aron Franks as long as I was around.
We just sat there quiet for a long time, which was fine, and I was thinking about way back in the very beginning in the Literal Heart of Jesus...
Your driving is unpleasant, but it isn't technically unsafe.
At some point we all look up and realize we are lost in a maze.
I began to swim, an armless silver mermaid, using only my hips to generate motion, until finally my ass scraped against the lake's mucky bottom. I turned then and used my hips and waist to roll three times, until I came ashore near a ratty green towel. They'd left me a towel. How thoughtful.
I wanted to be one of those people who have streaks to maintain, who scorch the ground with their intensity. But for now, at least I knew such people, and they needed me, just like comets need tails.
Last words are always harder to remember when no one knows that someone's about to die.
That didn't happen, of course. Things never happened the way I imagined them.
We didn't talk much. But we didn't need to.
A small olive-skinned creature who had hit puberty but never hit it very hard, Ben had been my best friend since fifth grade, when we both finally owned up to the fact that neither of us was likely to attract anyone else as a best friend.
Dude, I don't want to talk about Lacey's prom shoes. And I'll tell you why: I have this thing that makes me really uninterested in prom shoes. It's called a penis.
In the end the listening exposes you even more than it exposes the people you're trying to listen to.
Maybe this time she wanted to be found, and to be found by me.
More John Green Quotations (Based on Topics)
People - Time - World - Education - Mind - Death & Dying - Thought & Thinking - Life - Pain - Business & Commerce - Belief & Faith - Suffering - Facts - Place - Books - Conservative - Nature - Sense & Perception - Light - View All John Green Quotations
More John Green Quotations (By Book Titles)
- Looking for Alaska
- Paper Towns
- The Fault in Our Stars
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