Given the final futility of our struggle, is the fleeting jolt of meaning that art gives us valuable? Or is the only value in passing the time as comfortable as possible? What should a story seek to emulate, Augustus? A ringing alarm? A call to arms? A morphine drip? Of course, like all interrogation of the universe, this line of inquiry inevitably reduces us to asking what it means to be human and whether—to borrow a phrase from the angst-encumbered sixteeen-year-olds you no doubt revile—there is a point to it all.

Hazel GRACE!” he shouted. “You did not use your one dying Wish to go to Disney World with your parents.” “Also Epcot Center,” I mumbled. “Oh, my God,” Augustus said. “I can’t believe I have a crush on a girl with such cliché wishes.

We all matter - maybe less then a lot but always more than none.

Even with everything broken and decided inside her she couldn't quite allow herself to disappear for good.

I do love you and what else matters but that

I think that it's a universal urge to have our pain not be felt alone and to have our joys not be felt alone.

Like all sick children,' he answered dispassionately, 'you say you don't want pity, but your very existence depends upon it.