But it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he has Cassius note, ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves.
And I kept thinking about how sky is a singular noun, as if it's one thing. But the sky isn't one thing. The sky is everything. And last night, it was enough.
We all want to do something to mitigate the pain of loss or to turn grief into something positive, to find a silver lining in the clouds. But I believe there is real value in just standing there, bein...
Human existence is temporary and all the knowledge of the universe we acquire will in time be forgotten because there will be no humans left to benefit from any of the stuff we learned.And yet, this d...
Maybe she'd been scared of being paralyzed by fear again.
You matter as much as the things that matter to you. And I got so backwards trying to matter to him. All this time, there were real things to care about: real, good people who care about me, and this...
You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world...but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices.
Who cares if she can kiss? She can see through the clouds.
We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are.
The whole thing was the precise opposite of what I figured it would be: slow and patient and quiet and neither particularly painful nor particularly ecstatic
The thing about a spiral is, if you follow it inward, it never actually ends. It just keeps tightening, infinitely.
So why don't you go home for vacations?' I asked her.I'm just scared of ghosts, Pudge. And home is full of them.
She was nothing but good and I was nothing but bad, but then she died, and I didn't.
One swing set, well worn but structurally sound, seeks new home. Make memories with your kid or kids so that someday he or she or they will look into the backyard and feel the ache of sentimentality a...
Nothing was happening, really, but the moment was thick with mattering
No reason to be angry. Anger just distracts from the all-encompassing sadness.
Nineteenth-century preacher Henry Ward Beecher's last words were Now comes the mystery. The poet Dylan Thomas, who liked a good drink at least as much as Alaska, said, I've had eighteen straight whisk...
My third best friend was an author who did not know I existed.
It's gas! It's gonna blow! Ben shouts. He throws open the passenger door and takes off, running in a panic. He hurdles a split-rail fence and tears across a hay field. I get out as well, but not in qu...
It's a metaphor, see: You put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its killing.