John Green

Could the two people who are making out please be quiet?" the Colonel asked loudly from his sleeping bag. "Those of us who are not making out are drunk and tired.

She loved so much misteries tha she became one

Apparently, the world is not a wish-granting factory.

I'm in love with you, and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things.

I'm sorry. I know you loved her. It was hard not to.

What can we do?" Mom asked again.I shrugged.But she kept asking, as if there were something she could do, until I just kind of crawled across the couch into her lap and my dad came over and held my legs really tight and I wrapped my arms all the way around my mom's middle and they held on to me for hours while the tide rolled in.

The Degree to which I am blessed staggers me... the degree to which I take that for granted shames me.-Streetwalking with Jesus

All along _ not only since she left, but for a decade before _ I had been imagining her without listening, without knowing that she made as a poor a window as I did. And so I could not imagine her as a person who could feel fear, who could feel isolated in a roomful of people, who could be shy about her record collection because it was too personal to share. Someone who might have read travel books to escape having to live in the town that so many people escape to. Someone who _ because no one thought she was a person _ had no one to really talk to.

You shall love your neighbourWith your crooked heart,It says so much about love and brokenness -- it's perfect.

Once we got out of Jefferson Park, we rolled down the one window that worked so the world would know we had good taste in music.

The thing about a spiral is, if you follow it inward, it never actually ends. It just keeps tightening, infinitely.

Fights were recounted, battles won amid wars sure to be lost; hope was clung to; families were both celebrated and denounced; it was agreed that friends just didn't get it; tears were shed; comfort proffered.

That__ the thing about pain, it demands to be felt.

Well to be fair, I said, I mean she probably can't handle it. Neither can you, but she doesn't have to handle it. And you do.

The world," he said, "is not a wish-granting factory," and then he broke down, just for one moment, his sob roaring impotent like a clap of thunder unaccompanied by lightning, the terrible ferocity that amateurs in the field of suffering might mistake for weakness.

That's the thing about pain. It demands to be felt...

Even then, it hurt. The pain was always there, pulling me inside of myself, demanding to be felt. It always felt like I was waking up from the pain when something in the world outside of me suddenly required my comment or attention.

The marks humans leave are too often scars.