Цитаты из книги Paper Towns

«Личность Марго неотделима от тела Марго. Невозможно видеть только что-то одно.»

I don't know how I look, but I know how I feel: Young. Goofy. Infinite.

Humans lack good mirrors. It's so hard for anyone to show us how we look, and it's so hard for us to show anyone how we feel. We find it difficult to understand that other people are human beings in the same way that we are. We idealize them as gods or dismiss them as animals.

I just want to remember her. One last time, I want to remember her while still hoping to see her again.

Leaving feels good and pure only when you leave something important, something that mattered to you. Pulling life out by the roots. But you can't do that until your life has grown roots.

Leaving feels too good once you leave.

She'd had good days here. And on the last day, the bad days become so difficult to call, because one way or another, she had made a life here. The town was paper, but the memories were not.

But a poem can't do its work if you only read snippets of it.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop some where waiting for you.

It's a metaphor for adolescence. Writing in a language—adulthood—you can't comprehend, using an alphabet—mature social interaction—you can't recognise.

You had to be important to have enemies.

Light, the visible reminder of Invisible Light.

Every moment of your life is lived for the future.

Margo always loved mysteries. And in everything that came afterward, I could never stop thinking that maybe she loved mysteries so much that she became one.

— ААААА! Господи, моя рука. — Он попытался сжать пальцы в кулак и поморщился. — По-моему, он учебник к животу приклеил. — Это называется «пресс», дружище, — ответил я.

Мне это всегда нравилось: рутина доставляла мне удовольствие. Я любил скучную жизнь.

Хотя рано или поздно что-нибудь тебя все равно убивает.
Я пожимаю плечами:
— Знаю. Я не говорю, что пережить можно что угодно. Но многое все же можно — за исключением самого последнего.

— Слушай, а дело в месте или все же в людях? Ну, если бы люди были другие?
— А как можно отделить одно от другого? Люди — это место — это люди.

Чувак, я не хочу обсуждать туфли Лэйси. Я даже скажу почему: у меня есть такая штука, из-за наличия которой меня обувь для выпускного совершенно не интересует. Член называется.