Turtles All the Way Down

by John Green

You think you’re the painter, but you’re the canvas.

there was a depth to Davis’s brown eyes that you just don’t get from lighter colors, and the way he looked at me made me feel like there was something worthwhile in the brown of my eyes, too.

There’s an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem that’s been rumbling around inside me ever since I first read it, and part of it goes, “Blown from the dark hill hither to my door / Three flakes, then four / Arrive, then many more.” You can count the first three flakes, and the fourth. Then language fails, and you have to settle in and try to survive the blizzard.