The urge to make art or contemplate philosophy does not go away when you are sick. Those urges just become transfigured by illness.

"Nothing," I said. "I’m just…" I couldn’t finish the sentence, didn’t know how to. "I’m just very, very fond of you."

And I don’t blame him. I don’t even trust me.

I've gotten thrown out of thirty-seven straight games,' he said. 'Once or twice, I've had to go really crazy. I ran onto the court with eleven seconds left once and stole the ball from the other team. It wasn't pretty. But, you know. I have a streak to maintain.

Poetry is just so emo." he said. "Oh, the pain. The pain. It always rains. In my soul.

I just want you to be happy. If that’s with me or with someone else or with nobody. I just want you to be happy.

I could be worse, you know." "How?" I asked, teasing. "I mean, I have a work of calligraphy over my toilet that reads, 'Bathe yourself in the comfort of God's words,' Hazel. I could be way worse." "Sounds unsanitary," I said.