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If I could do it all over again, he said, his speech slow and vaguely mangled by his massive lower lip, I'd just let myself be trampled to death by the Satan Pig.

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
Massive
Slow
Lips
Mangled
Speech
Trampled
Death
Vaguely
Pigs
Lower
Satan

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He specialized in the murder of dreams, Hazel Grace.
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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.
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I was a fairly shy person - not the hand raising type.
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True love will triumph in the end—which may or may not be a lie, but if it is a lie, it's the most beautiful lie we have.
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Also, I feel that crying is almost--like, aside from deaths of relatives or whatever-- totally avoidable if you follow two very simple rules: 1.Don't care too much. 2. Shut up. Everything unfortunate that has ever happened to me has stemmed from failure to follow one of the rules.
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Lies are attempts to hide the truth by willfully denying facts. Fiction, on the other hand, is an attempt to reveal the truth by ignoring facts.
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I was born into Bolívar's labyrinth, and so I must believe in the hope of Rabelais' Great Perhaps.
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I learned that myth doesn’t mean a lie it means a traditional story that tells you something about people and their worldview and what they hold sacred. Interesting.
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That's why those tapes we made are going to be so great one day, because they'll tell stories that time has swallowed up or distorted or whatever.
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The labyrinth blows, but I choose it.
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I hadn’t read a real series like that since I was a kid, and it was exciting to live again in an infinite fiction.
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The minister said, “Let us pray,” but as everyone else bowed their head, I could only stare slack-jawed at the sight of Peter Van Houten. After a moment, he whispered, “We gotta fake pray,” and bowed his head.
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Did I help you to a fate you didn't want?
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I don't have a favourite book, I have hundreds.
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Everything's uglier close up, she said. Not you, I answered.
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It is worth it to leave behing my minor life for grander maybes.
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Books belong to their readers.
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Some people don't understand the promises they're making when they make them, I said. Right, of course. But you keep the promise anyway. That's what love is. Love is keeping the promise anyway.
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I always had this secret suspicion that I was special.
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