She had the kind of eyes that predisposed you to supporting her every endeavor.

Ashes to ashes. Garage sale to garage sale,” I said.

She was loved deeply, but not widely

Oh, I wouldn't mind, Hazel Grace. It would be a privilege to have my heart broken by you.

I am crying, he thought, opening his eyes to stare through the soapy, stinging water. I feel like crying, so I must be crying, but it's impossible to tell because I'm underwater. But he wasn't crying. Curiously, he felt too depressed to cry. Too hurt. It felt as if she'd taken the part of him that cried.

the problem is not suffering itself or oblivion itself but the depraved meaninglessness of these things, the absolutely inhuman nihilism of suffering.

But there's so much to do: cigarettes to smoke, sex to have, swings to swing on.