“We just did an awesome job of not dying.”

Not that smart. Not that hot. Not that nice. Not that funny. That’s me: I’m not that.

Books so special and rare and yours that advertising your affection feels like a betrayal.

We all use the future to escape the present.

We’re as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we’re not likely to do either.

What is the point of being alive if you don’t at least try to do something remarkable?

Our lives are composed of a finite set of moments that we choose how to spend.

The urge to make art or contemplate philosophy does not go away when you are sick. Those urges just become transfigured by illness.

We’re all just facilitators. The real business is done by readers.

The human tongue is like wasabi: it’s very powerful, and should be used sparingly.

You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.

He liked the mere act of reading, the magic of turning scratches on a page into words inside his head.

We just did an awesome job of not dying.

Maybe our favorite quotations say more about us than about the stories and people we’re quoting.

Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book.

I don’t think your missing pieces ever fit inside you again once they go missing.

I’m not saying that everything is survivable. Just that everything except the last thing is.