John Green

Tiny is saying, "If you can't trust your gut then what can you trust?" And I say, "You can trust that caring, as a rule, ends poorly," which is true. Caring doesn't sometimes lead to misery. It always does.

She raised one leg and gave me all her weight as I dipped her. She either trusted me or wanted to fall.

Inside the building, the sun lights up segments of the rotting wooden floor through the many holes in the roof. As I look for her, I register things: the soggy floorboards. The smell of almonds, like her. An old claw-footed bathtub in a corner. So many holes everywhere that this place is simultaneously inside and outside.

...the kind of weather that reminds you after a long winter that while the world wasn't built for humans, we were built for the world. t

I am trying to find ways to live honestly and hopefully in the world without ignoring or denying the universe´s cold and painful indifference to us.

Such was life that morning: nothing really mattered that much, not the good things and not the bad ones. We were in the business of mutual amusement, and we were reasonably prosperous." (pg. 18)

But, in fact, depression is not a side effect of cancer. Depression is a side effect of dying. - Hazel Grace Lancaster

I am constantly torn between killing myself and killing everyone around me. Those seem to be the two choices. Everything else is just killing time.

She said she couldn't handle it,_ he told me. ____ about to lose my eyesight and she can__ handle it.__ was thinking about the word handle, and all the unholdable things that get handled. . . .'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.''I kept saying __lways_ to her today, __lways always always_, and she just kept talking over me and not saying it back. It was like I was already gone, you know? __lways_ was a promise! How can you just break a promise?''Sometimes people don't understand the promises they're making when they make them', I said.Isaac shot me a look. __ight, of course. But you keep them anyway. That__ what love is. Love is keeping the promises anyway. Don__ you believe in true love?__ didn__ answer. I didn__ have an answer. But I thought that if true love did exist, that was a pretty good definition of it.

i am constantly torn between killing myself and killing everyone around me.those seem to be the two choices. everything else is just killing time.

i am constantly torn between killing myself and killing everyone around me. those seem to be the two choices. everything else is just killing time

i am constantly torn between killing myself and killing everyone around me. those seem to be the two choices. everything else is just killing time.

weltschmerz. it's the depression you feel when the world as it is does not line up with the world as you think it should be

still, what could i say? that i didn't just feel depressed - instead, it was like the depression was the core of me, of every part of me, from my mind to my bones? that if he got blue, i got black? that i hated those pills so much, because i knew how much i relied on them to live?

Words are not static.Language shape our memories, and it is also shaped by our memories.

Human existence is temporary and all the knowledge of the universe we acquire will in time be forgotten because there will be no humans left to benefit from any of the stuff we learned.And yet, this doesn't invalidate scientific exploration to me. We seek to understand the universe because it makes our lives better and more rich. Similarly, we tell stories (and think about why and how to tell stories) because it makes human existence richer. Made-up stories matter. They bring us pleasure and solace and nurture empathy by letting us see the world through others' eyes. They also help us to feel unalone, to understand that our grief and joy is shared not just by those around us but by all those who came before us and all those still yet to come.

Everyone in this tale has a rock-solid hamartia: hers, that she is so sick; yours, that you are so well. Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius, "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.

(Witness also that when we talk about literature, we do so in the present tense. When we speak of the dead, we are not so kind.) You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.