We cannot afford to differ on the question of honesty if we expect our republic permanently to endure. Honesty is not so much a credit as an absolute prerequisite to efficient service to the public. Unless a man is honest, we have no right to keep him in public life; it matters not how brilliant his
Patriotism means to stand by the country. It does not mean to stand by the president or any other public official, save exactly to the degree in which he himself stands by the country. It is patriotic to support him insofar as he efficiently serves the country. It is unpatriotic not to oppose him to
What's your name ? Hazel . No , your full name . Um , Hazel Grace Lancaster .
I think when you're 16, if you have good parents, they generally just fade in the background. I had great parents, and because they were great, I thought very little about them in high school.
Augustus: â€œYou probably need some rest.â€ Me: â€œIâ€™m okay.â€ Augustus: â€œOkay.â€ (Pause.) â€œWhat are you thinking about?â€ Me: â€œYou.â€ Augustus: â€œWhat about me?â€ Me: â€œâ€˜I do not know which to prefer, / The beauty of inflections / Or the beauty of innuendos, / The blackbird whistling /
As a reader, I don't feel a story has an obligation to make me happy. I want stories to show me a bigger world than the one I know.
Wait, wait. I don't get it.' 'That is because you only have eight functioning brain cells.
The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams. So much depends upom a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.
Once you think a thought, it is extremely difficult to unthink it.
Just spend a few more months playing video games. That hand-eye coordination will come in handy when you get to third base.
We all miss you so much. It just never ends. It feels like we were all wounded in your battle, Caroline. I miss you. I love you.
You know what I hate? The outdoors. I mean, generally. I don't like outside. I'm an inside person. I'm all about refrigeration and indoor plumbing and Judge Judy.
Neither novels or their readers benefit from any attempts to divine whether any facts hide inside a story. Such efforts attack the very idea that made-up stories can matter, which is sort of the foundational assumption of our species.
I write about broken people who need other people in order to go on. But those are the only kind of people I know to exist. We are all broken.
Physical intimacy isnâ€™t and can never be an effective substitute for emotional intimacy.
When you acknowledge that there is nothing repulsive or unforgivable or shameful about yourself, it becomes easier to be that authentic person and feel like you're living a less performed life.
History reminds us that revolutions are not events, so much that theyâ€™re processes â€“ that for tens of thousands of years, people have been making decisions that irrevocably shaped the world that we live in today; just as today, we are making subtle, irrevocable decisions that people of the futur
What do you mean by meant? Given the final futility of our struggle, is the fleeting jolt of meaning that art gives us valuable? Or is it the only value passing time as comfortably as possible?
What I love about the sculpture is that it makes the bones that we are always walking and playing on manifest, like in a world that so often denies the reality of death and the reality that we are surrounded by and outnumbered by the dead. Here, is a very playful way of acknowledging that and acknow
It's not life or death, the labyrinth. Suffering. Doing wrong and having wrong things happen to you. That's the problem. Bolivar was talking about the pain, not about the living or dying. How do you get out of the labyrinth of suffering?
I have a great affection for people who are intellectually engaged with the world, and who don't treat everything superficially. And I think, when people talk about nerdiness, what they're really talking about is smart people who who are trying to think hard about the world. And I don't think that's
The world went on, as it does, without my full participation, and I only woke up from the reverie when someone said my name.