Paper Towns

by John Green

Talking to a drunk person was like talking to an extremely happy, severely brain-damaged three-year-old.

leaving feels good and pure only when you leave something important, something that mattered to you. Pulling life out by the roots.

I’m in the far left lane driving eight miles an hour over the fifty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit, because I heard once that you don’t get pulled over until you’re going nine miles an hour over the speed limit.

What a treacherous thing it is to believe that a person is more than a person.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn’t do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn’t in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get at.’

“Forever is composed of nows,”

We don’t suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters.