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People will say it’s sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. Hazel knows the truth: We’re as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we’re not likely to do either. I know it’s silly and useless – epically useless in my current state – but I am an animal like any other. We poison the groundwater with our toxic piss, marking everything MINE in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. My thoughts are stars I can’t fathom into constellations.)
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But I can’t pull my ideas together, Van Houten. (Okay, maybe I’m not such a shitty writer. You build a hideous minimall or start a coup or try to become a rock star and you think, “They’ll remember me now,” but (a) they don’t remember you, and (b) all you leave behind are more scars. That’s what bothers me most, is being another unremembered casualty in the ancient and inglorious war against disease.īut Van Houten: The marks humans leave are too often scars. Here’s the thing about Hazel: Almost everyone is obsessed with leaving a mark upon the world. I’ve got notes and everything, but if you could just make it into a coherent whole or whatever? Or even just tell me what I should say differently. I don’t want to ask you any favors, but if you have time – and from what I saw, you have plenty – I was wondering if you could write a eulogy for Hazel. You’re a shitty person but a good writer. 'But I will say this: When the scientists of the future show up at my house with robot eyes and they tell me to try them on, I will tell the scientists to screw off, because I do not want to see a world without him.' And he was vain: I do not believe I have ever met a more physically attractive person who was more acutely aware of his own physical attractiveness. And he was pretentious: Sweet Jesus Christ, that kid never took a piss without pondering the abundant metaphorical resonances of human waste production.
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'I'm telling you,' Isaac continued, 'Augustus Waters talked so much that he'd interupt you at his own funeral. 'I'm assuming you've got some time, you interupting bastard.
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We forgive him not because he had a heart as figuratively good as his literal one sucked, or because he knew more about how to hold a cigarette than any nonsmoker in history, or because he got eighteen years when he should've gotten more.' “Augustus Waters was a self-aggrandizing bastard.