All good American literature is always interested in people who are ambiguously heroic, like Gatsby.
Caroline is no longer sufffering from personhood.
We idealize them as gods or dismiss them as animals.
Hazel Grace,” he said. “Hi,” I said. “How are you?” “Grand,” he said. “I have been wanting to call you on a nearly minutely basis, but I have been waiting until I could form a coherent thought in re An Imperial Affliction.” (He said “in re.” He really did. That boy.)
She was loved deeply, but not widely
My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves.