“Really?” he said, the anger in his voice growing. I was about to answer when he left the booth and walked over to the counter. He flipped through a stack of magazines to read while-you-waited, grabbed one, and strode back to me. “Spike had found some of these in the house where we were,” he explained as he opened a People magazine to a picture of Brad Pitt. “So this man must have cured a disease or is a mighty warrior to command ten million dollars a movie. A movie is one of the frozen plays such as we saw yesterday, correct?” I nodded, although I’m not sure he noticed, since he kept on talking. “I am assuming that ten million dollars is a lot of money, but I haven’t quite figured out your currency system yet. Forgive me if I am incorrect. But if what I read is correct, this man makes an exorbitant sum of money for doing nothing more than being handsome. How is that different?” Before I could answer he flipped the page to a picture of Angelia Jolie. “It says this woman commands the same amount of money, so together they must be like a king and queen. Am I right? And while we are at it, please tell me what a Kardashian is.”“I wish I knew.” I mumbled.”

“I had everything before I met you." he said, unable to make eye contact with me."Funny" I said with more sadness than anger in my voice. "I didn't have anything before I met you.”

“Lidewij, I believe Agustus Waters sent a few pages from a notebok to Peter Van Houten shortly before he (Augustus) died. It is very important to me that someone reads these pages. I want to read them, of course, but maybe they weren't written for me. Regardless, they must be read. They must be. Can you help? Your friend, Hazel Grace Lancaster "She responded late that afternoon." Dear Hazel, I did not know that Augustus had died. I am very sad to hear this news. He was such a very charismatic young man. I am so sorry, and so sad. I have not spoken to Peter since I resigned that day we met. It is very late at night here, but I am going over to his house first thing in the morning to find this letter and force him to read it. Mornings were his best time, usually. Your friend, Lidewij Vliegenthart p.s. I am bringing my boyfriend in case we have to physically retsrain Peter.”

“There was a rich old guy named John Donnelly who must have donated a bunch of money. He had forgotten his member card one day, and when I tried to explain that it was a four-dollar fee to enter without a card, he went batshit. "Don't you know who I am, goddammit?" I had never seen him before. "Do you know who I am?" I wanted to say. "Then how could I know who you are? We don't know each other.”

“With Derrida, you can hardly misread him, because he’s so obscure. Every time you say, "He says so and so," he always says, "You misunderstood me." But if you try to figure out the correct interpretation, then that’s not so easy. I once said this to Michel Foucault, who was more hostile to Derrida even than I am, and Foucault said that Derrida practiced the method of obscurantisme terroriste (terrorism of obscurantism). We were speaking French. And I said, "What the hell do you mean by that?" And he said, "He writes so obscurely you can’t tell what he’s saying, that’s the obscurantism part, and then when you criticize him, he can always say, 'You didn’t understand me; you’re an idiot.' That’s the terrorism part." And I like that. So I wrote an article about Derrida. I asked Michel if it was OK if I quoted that passage, and he said yes.”

“The look he gave me...My stomach quivered in that exact same way when I watched Before Sunset, yearning for a guy to know me so deeply and truly, we were only really complete when we were together. That I could talk, go on wild tangents, make obtuse references, and he would divine my meaning before I knew what I was trying to say myself. Erik had fallen asleep next to me on the couch, complaining later that the movie was "just people talking." He had no idea that this movie could have been a love letter written for me.”

“I should have known,” he whispered. “I am the rain.” And yet he looked dully down the mountains of his body where the hills fell to an abyss. He felt the driving rain, and heard it whipping down, pattering on the ground. He saw his hills grow dark with moisture. Then a lancing pain shot through the heart of the world. “I am the land,” he said, “and I am the rain. The grass will grow out of me in a little while.”And the storm thickened, and covered the world with darkness, and with the rush of waters.”