“What do you mean by meant? 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 comfortably as possible? What should a story seek to emulate, Augusts? 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 sixteen-year-olds you no doubt revile – there is a point to it all.
The Fault In Our Stars, by John Green