Of course, like all interrogation of the universe, this line of inquiry inevitably reduces us to asking what it means to be human
and whether—to borrow a phrase from the angst-encumbered sixteen-year-olds you no doubt revile—there is a point to it all.
“‘I fear there is not, my friend, and that you would receive scant encouragement from further encounters with my writing.
But to answer your question: No, I have not written anything else, nor will I.
I do not feel that continuing to share my thoughts with readers would benefit either them or me.
Thank you again for your generous email.
“‘Yours most sincerely, Peter Van Houten, via Lidewij Vliegenthart.’”
“Wow,” I said. “Are you making this up?
Hazel Grace, could I, with my meager intellectual capacities,
make up a letter from Peter Van Houten featuring phrases likeour triumphantly digitized contemporaneity’?”
“You could not,” I allowed. “Can I, can I have the email address?
“Of course,” Augustus said, like it was not the best gift ever.
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