I like the strings. I always have. Because that's how it feels. But the strings make pain seem more fatal than it is, I think. We're not as frail as the strings would make us believe. And I like the grass, too. The grass got me to you, helped me to imagine you as an actual person. But we're not different sprouts from the same plant. I can't be you. You can't be me. You can imagine another well – but never quite perfectly, you know?

As lives go, I'll take the quietly desperate over the radically bipolar.

The world may be broken, but hope is not crazy.

Tell me my copy is missing the last twenty pages or something. Hazel Grace, tell me I have not reached the end of this book. OH MY GOD DO THEY GET MARRIED OR NOT OH MY GOD WHAT IS THIS?!

Maybe 'okay' will be our 'always

There's a place in the brain for knowing what cannot be remembered.

It was psychological trick called empathic listening. You say what the person is feeling so they feel understood.