Hey all! We just finished sending Augustus Waters to his fake grave, but I couldn’t fit in everything that our amazing posters had to offer. So I’m sharing the full eulogies here so you can enjoy the hell out of them! If I get others from commenters, they’ll go here as well.
Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to say goodbye to a beautiful man known by many names: Augustus Waters, Gus, Mr. Psycho, Edward Cullen, Pee Wee Herman.
And we’d like to tell him how little he means to all of us:
Video game guru in Chapter 9
There once was a boy named Augustus,
Whose smug attitude would disgust us.
For more drama, the answer
Was terminal cancer.
Thus Green gave his fangirls a just fuss.
Bonus: In our conversations, he referred to Gus as “Grinny.”
There are so many wonderful things to say about Augustus Waters. I want to first start off with discussing how Augustus taught me to never stop dreaming. Things that seemed impossible, he made possible. His driving was a danger to himself and others, but he was given a license anyway. I learned from Augustus and Hazel Grace the concept of “cancer perks,” and I learned that a totally undeserved driver’s license can be given to someone even if their driving was confirmed terrible by the DMV. It was one of the first times Augustus showed me his amazing dreamy-guy abilities, but it would not be the last.
Augustus was served alcohol on an international flight when he asked for it despite being underage. “Cancer perk!” It didn’t matter that the flight attendant knew he was sick, and she was putting her career in jeopardy for multiple reasons. I have a feeling he got the champagne partly because of his adorably creepy eye-stare too. It was always hard for the ladies to resist. Anyone can just ask the love of his life, Hazel Grace, who was lucky enough to know him for like three weeks.
His first kiss — and a long one, at that — with Hazel Grace was in the Anne Frank House. While most people would find that among the least romantic places on the planet and incredibly offensive to the memory of all who were victims of the Holocaust, Augustus focused on what was important; Hazel Grace climbed stairs with her oxygen tank. Then they talked about how bad Nazis are. A meeting of minds! For 100% of the planet who isn’t named Hazel Grace Lancaster and Augustus Waters, this would be a terrible idea.
However, you, Augustus Waters, always showed me that life works out exactly as you want it with the exception of pesky cancer getting in the way. Not only did you basically make out in the Anne Frank House, you even got applause by the spectators, who were also there to visit the historical site. Then you took a bow, showing that your classiness was infinite.
Augustus always had a kind word for people. When his best friend, Isaac lost both of his eyes to cancer and was still recovering from the final surgery, Augustus asked how he was doing. When Isaac answered in a tragic yet humorous way, Augustus promptly told him, “not to one-up you or anything, but my body is made of cancer.” Half serious, half making a joke himself, it doesn’t even matter. Everything he said was perfect and totally appropriate. Isaac will forever be blind and still faces the possibility of relapse, but that did not deter Augustus from reminding Isaac he was the one who had trumped him. Always the pensive one and the adorably competitive one, Augustus Waters.
What makes me the happiest is a part of Gus will live on. Not just these sweet memories and countless others I have, but he lives on with Hazel Grace. They are so much alike. I seriously could be given any quote of something either of them said, and I’d never be able to tell who said it. I salute not only Augustus Waters, but Hazel Grace too. Their fantastically improbable dialogue and their absolute cookie-cutter acerbic wits have been an inspiration to us all.
Finally, I want to say to you, Gus, every time I’ll egg a house in broad daylight and rant to the home owner about it, I’ll think of you. Although, unlike you and your impossible luck in all ways except for “magical plot cancer,” I’ll probably be arrested when the cops will inevitably be called. It will be worth it… because it’ll just be “a little touch of” a criminal record.
Bonus: She’s the one who came up with the idea of this line, which I paraphrase while giving no credit, because I run this town: “I drink to you, Augustus Waters. And I salute to you.”
The Giddy Owl
Augustus feared being forgotten by the sands of time, and he did his best to not be forgotten by being an arrogant little shit that spreads misery wherever he goes like your average Youtube commenter, because people remember hurt a lot more vividly than average kindness. He’ll be remembered for his pain for a good long while, but eventually, the sands of time will rub out that memory.
It is a terrifying idea to imagine your existence being snuffed out, and the memory of that existence fading soon after. However, you exist now. Your existence has an impact on the past, present, and future, no matter how minuscule in the universe, much like the atoms that compose everything. You are the only one who will live with the entirety your existence, and that is what matters most.
Still worried that people will forget you after you die? Don’t worry, you’ll be too dead to care.
Bonus: In our conversations, she had this gem to share:
While I do like this idea of having a pre-funeral, wasn’t this Augustus’s idea? Wouldn’t it have been better for Hazel to have suggested this, since she’s the one working through her grief? Or maybe have Gus go “pre-funeral guys!” but ends up eulogizing for the living to give us one shred of humanity for this kid.
The Drunk Librarian
Wait, that’s me! I just wanted to keep all the eulogies together, really. It’s all one big party of non-mourning
Gus, you are remarkable. You’re narcissistic, not nearly as intelligent as you think you are, and a little on the rapey side . . . but I’m not sure I can blame you for that. See, you’re a victim of a trope and a genre that does nothing but appeal to the base, hormone-ridden desires of young women too naive to realize that men like you are actually creepy, not romantic. Staring Sunshine down like you’re a starving lion and she’s a filet mignon before you’d shared a single word with her, talking cryptically and showering her with inappropriate compliments, almost-kidnapping her the first time you meet . . .
I wasn’t joking when I called you Edward Cullen, because that’s virtually what you are. You’re a sparkly vampire, and people will someday find you ridiculous (I hope). But you’re first found desirable, because you’re exactly like every YA romantic hero we’ve seen since the genre was created, and people want to immerse themselves in the fantasy of being the object of someone’s unwavering desire, someone improbably sexy despite no exercise and lots of cancer, witty and brilliant despite sounding like all your lines were culled from both Tumblr and those awful sites that advertise things like “The System,” romantic despite behaving like that guy who breathes loudly into women’s phones and sends OKCupid messages like “i think we belong togethr ur so hot” to 50 girls at a time.
But can I blame you for being so horribly written? Are you really the victim of the contrived genius that knows exactly what buttons to press to get girls to drool over you and buy your merchandise? Are you as disgusted with yourself as we are?
Probably not. I don’t expect that, even if you were capable of being self-aware as a fictional character, Green gave you the capacity to be self-aware as a massive douchebag, because you have no reason to believe that you’re as hateful as you truly are. That’s the magic of characters like you; it’s why you can make out with your equally-nasty heroine in the middle of the Anne Frank museum and be applauded for it, because you are so important that your universe revolves around your whims. No one exists but to please you, Augustus Waters, and that kind of life is so charmed that I can’t feel bad for you, despite the fact that I know you’re going to be worm food in less than 4 chapters.
The rest of us muddle along, making mistakes, loving, losing, but you’re free from all of that. No emotional attachments besides a girl who is basically an extension of your own personality, no financial troubles despite being in and out of the hospital more often than most part-time nurses, never seeming to suffer for your affliction until the last few chapters for the sake of melodrama. 17 years of pure perfection (minus let’s say 4 for cumulative cancer angst) is more than any of us mere mortals will ever get, and we don’t even have the luxury of whining about it or hating you, because then we seem like massive tools making fun of the kid with cancer.
You’re perhaps the perfect definition of inane fantasy, someone who can only exist between the pages of a novel, or behind the safe barrier of a screen. Not because the world cannot handle you, but you cannot handle the world. Out here, we would eat you alive.
So I won’t miss you, Gus, and I’ll find your death a relief and probably a little funny. You’re a prime example of bad writing, and you can’t control that any more than a spider can control how it’s going to make me scream when it sticks its furry little backside over the shower curtain. But that fucker’s gonna die anyway, and so are you.
Goodbye, you creepy, criminal, memorial-defiling, disrespectful, douchey, pretentious waste of ink and paper.
Goodnight, sweet prince. May a flight of angels quote Swedish rap to you, and don’t let the coffin lid hit you in the ass on the way out.