“My name is Hazel. I’m sixteen. Thyroid with mets in my lungs. I’m okay.
My name is Augustus Waters, I’m seventeen. I had a little touch of osteosarcoma a year and a half ago, but I’m just here today at Isaac’s request
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“Hey. It’s okay.
“I’ll write you an epilogue
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Dear Ms. Lancaster,I fear your faith has been misplaced—but then, faith usually is. I cannot answer your questions, at least not in writing, because to write out such answers would constitute a sequel to An ImperialAffliction, which you might publish or otherwise share on the network that has replaced the brains of your generation. There is telephone, but then you might record the conversation. Not that I don’t trust you, of course, but I don’t trust you. Alas, dear Hazel, I could never answer such questions except in person, and you are there, while I am here.That noted, I must confess that the unexpected receipt of your correspondence via Ms. Vliegenthart has delighted me: What a wondrous thing to know that I made something useful to you—even if that book seems so distant from me that I feel it was written by a different man altogether. (The author of that novel was so thin, so frail, so comparatively optimistic!)Should you find yourself in Amsterdam, however, please do pay a visit at your leisure. I am usually home. I would even allow you a peek at my grocery lists.Yours mostsincerely,Van Houtenc/o Lidewij Vliegenthart
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