Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Every second of your definitionally temporary consciousness, you are choosing how you spend something that will not last forever.
And I agreed, but still, she owed us an explanation. If she was up there, down there, out there, somewhere, maybe she would laugh.
Hi, I’m at the Speedway at Eighty-sixth and Ditch, and I need an ambulance. The great love of my life has a malfunctioning G-tube.
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.
The internet is necessarily public. It can be filtered-public or censored-public, but it necessarily has to be open and available.
I feel like, like, how you matter is defined by the things that matter to you. You matter as much as the things that matter to you.
It always shocked me when I realized that I wasn’t the only person in the world who thought and felt such strange and awful things.
The urge to make art or contemplate philosophy does not go away when you are sick. Those urges just become transfigured by illness.
As a reader, I don't feel a story has an obligation to make me happy. I want stories to show me a bigger world than the one I know.
By saying you don’t care if the world falls apart, in some small way you’re saying you want it to stay together, on your own terms.
It seemed like forever ago, like we've had this brief but still infinite forever. Some infinities are bigger than other infinities.
In our hyper-secular world, worship is still inevitable. But it is vital to remember that our gods don't choose us, we choose them.
At some point, you gotta stop looking up at the sky, or one of these days you'll look back down and see that you floated away, too.
It is very sad to me that some people are so intent on leaving their mark on the world that they don’t care if that mark is a scar.
The consequences of being un-cool feel so big that a lot of times you end of not finding ways to have open and honest conversations.
How do you just stop being terrified of getting left behind and ending up by yourself forever and not meaning anything to the world?
... I didn't know whether to feel angry at her for making me part of her suicide or just to feel angry at myself for letting her go.
His every syllable flirted. Honestly, he kind of turned me on. I didn't even know that guys could turn me on-not, like, in real life
Books are the ultimate Dumpees: put them down and they’ll wait for you forever; pay attention to them and they always love you back.
Who would you die for? Who would you wake up at five forty-five in the morning for even though you don't even know why he needs you?
There is a part of her greater than the sum of her knowable parts. And that part has to go somewhere, because it cannot be destroyed.
Because you're only thinking they-might-not-like-me-they-might-not-like-me, and guess what? When you act like that, no one likes you.
I inherited that penchant for intellectualism, a character flaw that these days can only be thoroughly eradicated by getting Z’ed up.
He wanted to draw out the moment before the moment- because as good as kissing feels, nothing feels as good as the anticipation of it.
Will Grayson, Will Grayson' is about two guys named Will Grayson who live in different Chicago suburbs who eventually meet each other.
We look back to the most important moment in our history, and that becomes the dividing line between what we were and what we are now.
You realize that trying to keep your distance from me will not lessen my affection for you. All efforts to save me from you will fail.
And since she drove to work every morning, I could only use the car on weekends. Well, weekends and the middle of the goddamned night.
When surprised and excited and innocent Gus emerged from Grand Gesture Metaphorically Inclined Augustus, I literally could not resist.
It's embarrassing that we all just walk through life blindly accepting that scrambled eggs are fundamentally associated with mornings.
So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.
That feeling of finishedness does not come all at once, and it is not easily won, but I think once you get there it is hard to go back.
You can't just make me different and then leave. You can't. You can't change me and make my whole life centered around you, then leave.
As far as all of our identities are dependent on how other people imagine us we are all making ourselves and each other up all the time
'Will Grayson, Will Grayson' is about two guys named Will Grayson who live in different Chicago suburbs who eventually meet each other.
There's no reason whatsoever to drink eight glasses of water a day unless you, for whatever reason, particularly like the taste of water
Like many people, I feel like celebrating. Remember this feeling. It is human, and can help us understand when others express bloodlust.
For me, the hero’s journey is not the voyage from weakness to strength. The true hero’s journey is the voyage from strength to weakness.
When you say nasty things about people, you should never say the true ones, because you can't really fully and honestly take those back.
The only thing worse than having a party that no one attends is having a party attended only by two vastly, deeply uninteresting people.
Here's to all the places we went. And all the places we'll go. And here's to me, whispering again and again and again and again: iloveyou
But as for me: I must ask the wounded man where he is hurt, because I cannot become the wounded man. The only wounded man I can be is me.
I hope we get pulled over, he says. I'd like to see how the cop responds to a black man wearing a Confederate T-shirt over a black dress.
Peter Van Houten was the only person I’d ever come across who seemed to (a) understand what it’s like to be dying, and (b) not have died.
What's that?" "The laundry basket?" "No, next to it." "I don't see anything next to it." "It's my last shred of dignity. It's very small.
The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams. So much depends upom a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.
I pulled the oxygen tubes from my nostrils and raised the tube up over my head, handing it to Dad. I wanted it to be just me and just him.
Above us, the wind blew and the branching shadows rearranged themselves on our skin. Gus squeezed my hand. "It is a good life, Hazel Grace.
My days had a pleasant identicalness about them. I had always liked that: I liked routine. I liked being bored. I didn’t want to but I did.
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.