You can’t divorce Margo the person from Margo the body. You can’t see one without seeing the other. You looked at Margo’s eyes and you saw both their blueness and their Margo-ness. In the end, you could not say that Margo Roth Spiegelman was fat, or that she was skinny, any more than you can say that the Eiffel Tower is or is not lonely. Margo’s beauty was a kind of sealed vessel of perfection – uncracked and uncrackable.

She fell apart because that's what happens.

Cold one day, sweet the next; irresistibly flirty one moment, resistibly obnoxious the next.

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.)

That's the thing about pain, it demands to be felt.

If you don't imagine, nothing ever happens at all.

I would argue that stupidity is born out of bad reading, bad teaching and bad thinking!