Look, let me just say it: He was hot. A nonhot boy stares at you relentlessly and it is, at best, awkward and, at worst, a form of assault. But a hot boy . . . well.

Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom. And in freedom, most people find sin.

I liked that he was a tenured professor in the Department of Slightly Crooked Smiles with a dual appointments in the Department of Having a Voice that Made My Skin Feel More Like Skin.

Oh, I wouldn't mind, Hazel Grace. It would be a privilege to have my heart broken by you.

I'll fight it. I'll fight it for you. Don't you worry about me, Hazel Grace. I'm okay. I'll find a way to hang around and annoy you for a long time.

As he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.

You are so busy being YOU that you have no idea how utterly unprecedented you are.

No matter how hard you kick, no matter how high you get, you can't go all the way around.

It's not life or death, the labyrinth. Suffering. Doing wrong and having wrong things happen to you.

That's the thing about pain, it demands to be felt.

You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world...but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices.

He always thinks because I'm reading, I'm not doing anything. There is no greater plague to an introvert than the extroverted.

I have just returned from the dubbing studio where I spoke into a microphone as Severus Snape for absolutely the last time.

It is so comic to hear oneself called old, even at ninety I suppose!

I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together

Hebrew was frozen, like frozen peas, fresh out of the Bible.

Nat Parson says it's the devil's mark." "Nat Parson's a gobshite." Maddy was torn between a natural feeling of sacrilege and a deep admiration of anyone who dared call a parson 'gobshite.

The art of seeing nature, or, in other words, the art of using models, is in reality the great object, the point to which all our studies are directed.

I'll never have a stylist.

The first four months of writing the book, my mental image is scratching with my hands through granite. My other image is pushing a train up the mountain, and it's icy, and I'm in bare feet.

The number of contemporary artists who appeal to me is infinitesimal.