You do not immortalise the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.
“Sure, I fear earthly oblivion. But, I mean, not to sound like my parents, but I believe humans have souls, and I believe in the conservation of souls. The oblivion fear is something else, fear that I won’t be able to give anything in exchange for my life. If you don’t live a life in service of a greater food, you’ve gotta at least die a death in service of a greater good, you know? And I fear that I won’t get either a life or a death that means anything.”
“What am I at war with? My cancer. And what is my cancer? My cancer is me. The tumours are made of me. They’re made of me as surely as my own brain and heart are made of me. It is a civil war, Hazel Grace, with a predetermined winner.”
I believe the universe wants to be noticed. I think the universe is improbably biased toward consciousness, that it rewards intelligence in part because the universe enjoys its elegance being observed. And who am , living in the middle of history, to tell the universe that it – or my observation of it – is temporary?
‘You are going to love a good and long life filled with great and terrible moments that you cannot even imagine yet!’
Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you.