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Do you ever wonder whether people would like you more or less if they could see inside you? But I always wonder about that. If people could see me the way I see myself—if they could live in my memories—would anyone, anyone, love me?

John Green

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John Green
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: August 24
Author
Businessperson
Critic
Editor
Film Producer
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Podcaster
Singer
Indianapolis
Indiana
John Michael Green
People
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Live
Way
Inside
Always
Memories
Would
Wonder
Love
Anyone
Life
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You could hold me and I could hold you. And it would be so peaceful. Completely peaceful. Like the feeling of sleep, but awake in it together.
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I always liked routine. I suppose I never found boredom very boring. I doubted I could explain it to someone like Margo but drawing circles through life struck me as a kind of reasonable insanity.
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Anyway, that was the last good day I had with Gus until the Last Good Day.
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Love is tied to truth.
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That is, to me at least, one of the most helpful and useful things books do for us: They are generous enough to allow us to choose what matters to us.
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People, I thought, wanted security. They couldn't bear the idea of death being a big black nothing, couldn't bear the thought of their loved ones not existing, and couldn't even imagine themselves not existing. I finally decided that people believed in an afterlife because they couldn't bear not to.
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They love their hair because they're not smart enough to love something more interesting.
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Everything's uglier close up, she said. Not you, I answered.
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He flipped himself onto his side and kissed me. You're so hot, I said, my hand still on his leg. I'm starting to think you have an amputee fetish, he answered, still kissing me. I laughed. I have an Augustus Waters fetish, I explained.
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I believe in that line from An Imperial Affliction. 'The risen sun too bright in her losing eyes.' That's God, I think, the rising sun, and the light is too bright and her eyes are losing but they aren't lost.
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That’s part of what I like about the book in some ways. It portrays death truthfully. You die in the middle of your life, in the middle of a sentence
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Oh, my god, Augustus said. i can't believe i have a crush on a girl with such cliché wishes. i was thirteen, i said again, although of course i was only thinking crush crush crush crush crush. I was flattered but changed the subject immediately.
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The pleasure of remembering had been taken from me, because there was no longer anyone to remember with. It felt like losing your co-rememberer meant losing the memory itself, as if the things we'd done were less real and important than they had been hours before.
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I think that most of us [writers] would rather have an audience than countless riches. If we wanted to be rich, we'd be doing smething else.
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For the longest time, it felt kind of like my chest was cracking open, but not precisely in an unpleasant way.
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I was thinking about the universe wanting to be noticed, and how I had to notice it as best I could. I felt that I owed a debt to the universe that only my attention could repay, and also that I owed a debt to everybody who didn’t get to be a person anymore and everyone who hadn’t gotten to be a person yet.
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