"My radio's loud like a fire alarm: The floor vibrates, the walls cave in, The bass makes my eardrums seem thin. Def sounds in my ride, yes the front and back... You would think it was a party, not a Cadillac!"

Next Quote

Given the final futility of our struggle, is the fleeting jolt of meaning that art gives us valuable? Or is the only value in passing the time as comfortable as possible? What should a story seek to emulate, Augustus? A ringing alarm? A call to arms? A morphine drip? 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 sixteeen-year-olds you no doubt revile—there is a point to it all.

— John Green