Paper Towns Quotes Novels & Stories

She asked motioning to the line I had offered as she turned to face me. "That love is beautiful, no matter who or what you love," I replied softly looking at the dirt trail before me, since the people in this town travelled by carriages, there weren't any roads to- "There are a lot of those in the book, just one line across the page with no context," "That's because I had that book made, I took my favourite quotes and placed them together," I confessed "So what's the story behind your quote?" She asked and I smiled nervously as I glanced over to her clearing my throat before saying.

My outlook on life has changed. I use to live by the quote: Live like someone is watching you dance as tomorrow is never promised. Now I think I’ll live by the quote: Some people will only like you if you fit into their box. Don’t be afraid to disappoint and say no to those that are too big for your box. As the kettle boils, I remember seeing Tobias throw something down on the coffee table, but as he left, he did not retrieve it. I push off the countertop with my hip and make my way to the coffee table. As I recalled, he did indeed leave something behind and it consists of a large yellow envelope that is still sitting on the glass tabletop with my name printed in bold letters on it.

"They say: we want you to know that we found the additional quality. We built it for ourselves. And Sara builds it for strangers now." Adrian put the letter down. He looked at the table. "They say one more thing," he said. "At the end." He picked up the letter again. Read the final paragraph slowly: We are glad you wrote. Not because the letter changed anything about the eight years — those years are what they are, and they are ours, and we do not need them to be other than they were. We are glad because the letter showed us that the buildings we live in are made by people who sometimes wonder afterward if they gave enough. That the questioning is real. That the attending, as Sara calls it,

The card read: “For the Keepers: May your work be both solid and full of flight.” It was a perfect, poetic artifact. A museum piece of our own making. The drive home was quiet, the paperweights resting heavy and symbolic in our laps. “I feel…” Clara started, then shook her head. “I don’t know. Like we’ve been canonized.” “Speak for yourself,” Lanc said, but he was holding his paperweight up to the passing streetlights, watching the bee catch the glow. “It’s a nice paperweight. Keeps things from blowing away.”

I stepped toward her and set my hand on her waist before murmuring, “We make ourselves rich by making our wants few.” Her lips parted as if that was the most profound thing she’d ever heard. And it might’ve been, since it had originally come from the lips of Henry David Thoreau. Which was why I couldn’t continue to take credit for it. I pointed past her toward the wall with my free hand. “At least that’s what Thoreau says.” She glanced back to find the quote printed and framed above the desk. “Oh.” Scowling, she whirled back to poke me in the gut. “You cheated. That’s a cheater’s answer.”

One of them was standing close by, taking brief interviews from commuters. "What does this sentence mean to you?" he asked a gray-haired woman with a shopping tote. She looked at the words, then pronounced, "It means you do not have to know everything. You just have to begin." The student grinned. "That's just what we're attempting to demonstrate." --- 8:22 PM — Penthouse, Living Room The lights were dim. A map was spread across the coffee table—not of borders, but of voices. Colored pins marked sites of new annotations. Beside each was a brief phrase someone had contributed, added, adapted, or challenged.

I admitted. “Everyone at the boutique keeps talking about it,” I continued. “They say Hawthorne Enterprises sometimes sponsors talent. Some of the seamstresses think he might discover someone there.” Mom smiled softly. “Just remember something,” she said. “No matter who walks through that door, your work will speak for itself.” Her words warmed something deep inside me. Later that night, I stood by my bedroom window. The city stretched endlessly beyond the glass. Hawthorne posters glowed beneath the streetlights.

"Your brother has opinions about the archival paper stock." "Of course he does," I say. He smiles. The real one. The one that reaches the amber. We are quiet for a moment. The lane holds the last of the dusk light and gives it back slowly, the way old stone does — releasing what it has held all day in the unhurried way of things that understand that warmth is worth keeping as long as possible. "What do you want the building to be?" he says. "When it's done. Precisely."