John Green Quotes (374 Quotes)

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.

The abbreviated exam week meant that Wednesday was the last day of school for us. And all day long, it was hard not to walk around, thinking about the lastness of it all.

We Play the broken string of our instruments one last time

Barnacles on the container ship of consciousness.

He really was beautiful. I know boys aren't supposed to be, but he was.

I liked that he was a tenured professor in the Department of Slightly Crooked Smiles with a dual appointments in the Department of Having a Voice that Made My Skin Feel More Like Skin.

I've gotten really hot since you went blind.

She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth.

The dead are visible only in the terrible lidless eye of memory.

We landed, in fact, parallel to a canal, like there were two runways: one for us and one for waterfowl.

You're arguing that the fragile, rare thing is beautiful simply because it is fragile and rare. But that's a lie, and you know it.

Az emberek, gondoltam, biztonsßgra vßgynak. K?ptelenek elviselni a gondolatot, hogy szeretteik mßr nem l?teznek, ?s magukat sem tudjßk nem l?tezo"nek elk?pzelni. V?g?l azt ?rtam, hogy az emberek az?rt hisznek a t·lvilßgban, mert nem tudjßk elviselni, hogy ne ?gy tegyenek.

I believe now that we are greater than the sum of our parts.

I was caught in a love triangle with one dead side.

Let's make a deal: You figure out what the labyrinth is and how to get out of it, and i'll get you laid. -Alaska Young

That is the fear: I have lost something important, and I cannot find it, and I need it. It is fear like if someone lost his glasses and went to the glasses sotre and they told him that the world had run out of glasses and he would just have to do without.

We think that we are invincible because we are.

And I can't help but feel that Whitman, for all his blustering beauty, might have been just a bit too optimistic. We can hear others, and we can travel to 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 whether we can really ever fully become one another.

Even with everything broken and decided inside her she couldn't quite allow herself to disappear for good.

In the end, I had to call myself a faggot, which really annoyed me, because 1. I don't think that word should ever be used by anyone, let alone me, and 2. As it happens, I am not gay, and furthermore, 3. Chuck Parson made it out like calling yourself a faggot was the ultimate humiliation, even though there's nothing at all embarrassing about being gay.

Maybe we're grass-our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive.