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"Witness, also, that when we talk about literature, we do so in the present tense. When we speak of the dead, we are not so kind."
The ENTIRE FREAKING BOOK is my favorite quote.
"Hold on," he mumbled to me. He walked over to Isaac and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Dude, pillows don't break. Try something that breaks."
Isaac reached for a basketball trophy from the shelf above the bed and then held it over his head as if waiting for permission. "Yes," Augustus said. "Yes!" The trophy smashed against the floor, the plastic basketball player's arm splintering off, still grasping its ball. Isaac stomped on the trophy. "Yes!" Augustus said. "Get it!"
And then back to me, "I've been looking for a way to tell my father that I actually sort of hate basketball, and I think we've found it." The trophies came down one after the other, and Isaac stomped on them and screamed while Augustus and I stood a few feet away, bearing witness to the madness. The poor, mangled bodies of plastic basketballers littered the carpeted ground: here, a ball palmed by a disembodied hand; there, two torsoless legs caught midjump. Isaac kept attacking the trophies, jumping on them with both feet, screaming, breathless, sweaty, until finally he collapsed on top of the jagged remnants.
Augustus stepped toward him and looked down. "Feel better?" he asked.
"No," Isaac mumbled, his chest heaving.
"That's the thing about pain," Augustus said, and then glanced back at me. "It demands to be felt."
"What a slut time is. She screws us all." -Peter Van Houten, The Fault In Our Stars
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