I love drunk John Green excited about the spelling bee. I LOVE the spelling bee. I’m glad my idol does as well. :)
Okay, so I know I already posted this video, but after reading The Fault in our Stars last week, this song really started to resonate with me in a different way. Because, yes, it resonates with me and Nick in some very odd ways I do not entirely understand. But I also definitely think this could be the song of Hazel and Gus, their infinite forever amid a short and tragic now.
What do my fellow Nerdfighters think?
My copy of The Fault in our Stars just arrived! I wanted to squeal and thank the UPS man, but he had already left when I got to the door.
But who cares?!
I have my copy, I have my John signature, and now I’m going to leave to read. Read read read. And post pictures later once my camera battery is recharged. :D :D :D
Totally on a kick of posting random John Green quotes tonight. From the deep ones in his books to his brilliance and hilarity in his books.
So, sorry, followers, if you don’t know who John Green is.
Go read his books. Go to Youtube.com/vlogbrothers
Books are not in the business of creating merely likeable characters who you can have some simple identification. Books are in the business of creating great stories that make your brain go gahbutchugahbutchuyababa! … Sorry, I spend all my time with the baby.
I FREAKING LOVE JOHN GREEN. WHY CAN’T I MARRY HIM?
My favorite book by a wide margin was An Imperial Affliction, but I didn’t like to tell people about it. Sometimes you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless, and until, all living humans read the book. And then there are books, like An Imperial Affliction, which you can’t tell people about. Books so special and rare and yours that advertising your affection feels like a betrayal.
Margo Roth Spiegelman was a person, too. And I had never quite thought of her that way, not really; it was a failure of all of my previous imaginings. All along—not only since she left, but for a decade before—I had been imagining her without listening, without knowing that she made as a poor window as I did. And so I could not imagine her as a person who could feel fear, who could feel isolated in a roomful of people, who could be shy about her record collection because it was too personal to share. Someone who might read travel books to escape having to live in the town that so many people could escape to. Someone who—because no one thought she was a person—had no one to really talk to.
And all at once I knew how Margo Roth Spiegelman felt when she wasn’t being Margo Roth Spiegelman: she felt empty. She felt the unscaleable wall surrounding her. I thought of her asleep on the carpet with only that jagged sliver of sky above her. Maybe Margo felt comfortable there because Margo the person had lived like that all the time: in an abandoned room with blocked-out windows, the only light pouring in through holes in the roof. Yes. The fundamental mistake I had always made—that she had, in fairness, always led me to make—was this: Margo was not a miracle. She was not an adventure. She was not a fine and precious thing. She was a girl.
When adults say, “Teenagers think they are invincible” with that sly, stupid smile on their faces, they don’t know how right they are. We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are. We cannot be born, and we cannot die. Like all energy, we can only change shapes and sizes and manifestations. They forget that when they get old. They get scared of losing and failing. But that part of us greater than the sum of our parts cannot begin and cannot end, and so it cannot fail.
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