Best 95 quotes in «paper towns quotes» category

And even though it was ridiculously childish, in the end I had to call myself a faggot, which really annoyed me, because 1. I don't think that word should ever be used by anyone, let alone me, and 2. As it happens, I am not gay, and furthermore, 3. Chuck Parson made it out like calling yourself a faggot was the ultimate humiliation, even though there's nothing at all embarrassing about being gay.

As we walked, I kept taking glances at her through the crowd, quick snapshots: a photographic series entitled Perfection Stands Still While Mortals Walk Past.

Ben, there are more important things going on,” I answered. “DESIGNATED DRIVER!” “What?” “You’re my designated driver! Yes! You are so designated! I love that you answered! That’s so awesome! I have to be home by six! And I designate you to get me there! YESSSSSSS!” “Can’t you just spend the night there?” I asked. “NOOOO! Booooo. Booo on Quentin. Hey, everybody! Boooo Quentin!” And then I was booed. “Everybody’s drunk. Ben drunk. Lacey drunk. Radar drunk. Nobody drive. Home by six. Promised Mom. Boo, Sleepy Quentin! Yay, Designated Driver! YESSSS!

But then again, if you don't imagine, nothing ever happens at all. Imagining isn't perfect. You can't get all the way inside someone else. I could never have imagined Margo's anger at being found, or the story she was writing over. But imagining being someone else, or the world being something else, is the only way in.

Creo que el futuro merece que creamos en él.

Desde aquí no se ve el óxido, la pintura cayéndose y todo eso, pero ves lo que es realmente. Ves lo falso que es todo. Ni siquiera es duro como el plástico. Es una ciudad de papel.

Do you guys remember that one time, in the minivan, twenty minutes ago, that we somehow didn't die?

En alguna parte te espero.

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

But it was the last string. It was a lame string, for sure, but it was the one I had left, and every paper girl needs at least one string, right?

By the power of the superglue beer sword, I designate you my driver!

Cuando pensaba en él muriendo, que admito que no ha sido muchas veces, siempre pensaba en lo que dijiste, en que se le habían roto los hilos por dentro. Pero hay mil maneras de verlo. Quizá los hilos se rompen, o quizá nuestros barcos se hunden, o quizá somos hierba, y nuestras raíces son tan interdependientes que nadie esta muerto mientras quede alguien vivo. Lo que quiero decir es que no nos faltan las metaforas. Pero debes de tener cuidado con la metáfora que eliges, porque es importante. Si eliges los hilos, estás imaginándote un mundo en el que puedes romperte irreparablemente. Si eliges la hierba, estás diciendo que todos estamos infinitamente interconectados, que podemos utilizar ese sistema de raíces no sólo para entendernos unos a los otros. Las metáforas implican cosas.

Después de besarnos, nos miramos tan de cerca que nuestras frentes se tocan. Sí, la veo casi a la perfección en esta agrietada oscuridad.

El futuro está formado por horas.

Es muy difícil para cualquiera mostrarnos como se nos ve, y para nosotros mostrar a cualquiera como nos sentimos.

Es fácil que te guste alguien desde la distancia. Pero cuando deja de ser algo increíble e inalcanzable y empieza a ser una chica normal, con una extraña relación con la comida, bastante cascarrabias y mandona…todo cambia.

Estoy en este estacionamiento pensando que nunca he estado tan lejos de casa, y aquí esta la chica a la que amo y a la que no puedo seguir. Espero que sea la misión del héroe, porque no seguirla es lo más duro que he hecho en mi vida…

Ese algo más profundo y más secreto. Son como grietas dentro de ti. Como líneas defectuosas en las que las cosas no encajan bien.

He vivido aquí dieciocho años, y ni una sola vez en la vida me he encontrado con alguien que se preocupe de lo que de verdad importa.

I always like routine. I suppose I never found boredom very boring.

Here's what's not beautiful about it: from here, you can't see the rust or the cracked paint or whatever, but you can tell what they place really is. You see how fake it all is. It's not even hard enough to be made out of plastic. It's a paper town. (57)

How can you seperate those things though? The people are the place is the people.

I am thinking that I don't want this to happen. I don't want to die. I don't want my friends to die. And to be honest, as the time slows down and my hands are in the air, I am afforded the chance to think one more thought, and I think about her. I blame her for this ridiculous, fatal chase--for putting us at risk, for making me into the kind of jackass who would stay up all night and drive too fast. I would not be dying were it not for her. I would have stayed home, as I have always stayed home, and I would've been safe, and I would have done the one thing I have always wanted to do, which is to grow up.

i'd been in the dark so long I was still craving it.

I looked down and thought about how I was made of paper. I was the flimsy-foldable person, not everyone else.

I had not cried for Margo until then, but now finally I did, pounding against the ground and shouting because there was no on to hear: I missed her I missed her I missed her I miss her.

I'm a big believer in random capitalization. The rules of capitalization are so unfair to the words in the middle. (32)

I felt so detached from all this shit, all this high-school-is-ending-So-we-have-to-reveal-that-deep-down-we-all-love-everybody bullshit.

I left the only way you can leave. You pull your life off all at once - like a Band-Aid.

I spent the next three hours in classrooms, trying not to look at the clocks over various blackboards, and then looking at the clocks, and then being amazed that only a few minutes had passed since I last looked at the clocks, but their sluggishness never ceased to surprise. If I am ever told that I have one day to live, I will head straight for the hallowed halls of Winter Park High School, where a day has been known to last a thousand years.

It all seemed so trivial, so embarassing. It all seemed like paper kids having their paper fun.

It became a weekend of reading, of trying to see her in the fragments of the poem she'd left for me.

. . . I'm not pretty, not close up anyway. Generally, the closer people get to me the less hot they find me.

I think the future deserves our faith. But it is hard to argue with Emily Dickinson.

It's so hard for anyone to show us how we look, and so hard for us to show anyone how we feel

It's kind of great, being an idea that everybody likes. But I could never be the idea to myself, not all the way.

It was a lame string, for sure, but it was the one I had left and every paper girl needs at least one string, right? (58)

It's easy to like someone from a distance. But when she stopped being this amazing attainable thing or whatever, and started being, like, just a regular girl with a weird relationship with food and frequent crankiness who's kinda bossy, then I had to basically start liking a whole different person.

Jesus, kid, you're almost a detective. All you need now is a gun, a gut, and three ex-wives.

Leaving feels too good, once you leave.

Margo no era un milagro. Ella no era una aventura. No era una cosa bella y preciosa. Era una chica.

La belleza de Margo era una especie de recipiente de perfección cerrado, intacto e irrompible.

Margo menyukai misteri sejak dulu. Dan dalam semua hal yang terjadi setelahnya, aku tidak pernah bisa berhenti berpikir bahwa jangan-jangan lantaran terlampau menyukai misteri, dia pun menjadi misteri.

La gente empezó a tener cada vez más futuro, así que se pasaba más tiempo pensando en él. En e futuro. Y ahora la vida se ha convertido en el futuro. Vives cada instante de tu vida por el futuro...

Margo was so beautiful that even her fake smiles were convincing. (54)

Miraba hacia abajo y pensaba que yo era de papel.

No puedes separar a la Margo persona de la Margo cuerpo. No puedes ver lo uno sin lo otro… Al final, no sabias si Margo Roth Spiegelman estaba gorda o estaba delgada, como no sabes si la torre Eiffel se siente o no se siente sola.

No estoy diciendo que pueda sobrevivirse a todo. Sólo que puede sobrevivirse a todo, menos a lo último.

No you don't", she answers, and she is right. She can see it in my face- I understand now that I can't be her and she can't be me. Maybe Whitman had a gift I don't have. But as for me: I must ask the wounded man where he is hurt, because I cannot become the wounded man. The only wounded man I can be is me.

Oh no you didn't," Radar says when I show him why we're laughing. "Ben Starling, you better not have bought your token black friend a racist shirt.