My cancer is me. The tumors are made of me. They’re made of me as surely as my brain and my heart are made of me.
It is a civil war, Hazel Grace, with a predetermined winner.” “Gus,” I said. I couldn’t say anything else.
He was too smart for the kinds of solace I could offer. “Okay,” he said. But it wasn’t.
After a moment, he said, “If you go to the Rijksmuseum, which I really wanted to do—
but who are we kidding, neither of us can walk through a museum.
But anyway, I looked at the collection online before we left. If you were to go, and hopefully someday you will,
you would see a lot of paintings of dead people. You’d see Jesus on the cross, and you’d see a dude getting stabbed in the neck,
and you’d see people dying at sea and in battle and a parade of martyrs.
But Not. One. Single. Cancer. Kid. Nobody biting it from the plague or smallpox or yellow fever or whatever,
because there is no glory in illness. There is no meaning to it. There is no honor in dying of.”
Abraham Maslow, I present to you Augustus Waters, whose existential curiosity dwarfed that of his well-fed, well-loved, healthy brethren.
While the mass of men went on leading thoroughly unexamined lives of monstrous consumption,
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색