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I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.

Lauren Oliver

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Lauren Oliver
Age: 41
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Westchester County
New York
Sometimes
Giving
Even
Things
Loving
Love
Guess
People
Sacrifice
Part
Give

More quotes by Lauren Oliver

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That's when you realize that most of it-life, the relentless mechanism of existing-isn't about you. It doesn't include you at all. It will thrust onward even after you've jumped the edge. Even after you're dead.
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....love and desire enjoy a symbiotic relationship, meaning that one cannot exist without the other. Desire is an enemy to contentment desire is illness, a feverish brain. Who can be considered healthy who wants? The very word want suggests a lack, an impoverishment, and that is what desire is: an impoverishment of the brain, a flaw, a mistake.
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Anger is useful only to a certain point. After that, it becomes rage, and rage will make you careless.
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You don't reach points in life at which everything is sorted out for us. I believe in endings that should suggest our stories always continue.
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i feel like a curtain has dropped away and i'm seeing people for who they really are, different, and sharp, and unknowable.
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When he speaks again, I can tell that he's smiling. So I guess we saved each other.
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We wanted the freedom to love. We wanted the freedom to choose. Now we have to fight for it.
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I'm overwhelmed with sadness for everything that was lost, and filled with anger toward the people who took it away. My people-or at least, my old people. I don't know who I am anymore, or where I belong. That's not totally true...I know I belong with Alex.
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Hate isn’t the most dangerous thing, he’d said. Indifference is.
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I get that rush that comes when you know you're doing something wrong and are getting away with it, like stealing from the school cafeteria of getting tipsy at a family holiday without anyone knowing it.
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I know what the problem is, of course. The disorientation, the distraction, the difficulty focusing - all classic Phase One signs of deliria. But I don't care. If pneumonia felt this good I'd stand out in the snow in the winter with bare feet and no coat, or march into the hospital and kiss pneumonia patients
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The tunnels may be long, and twisted, and dark but you are supposed to go through them.
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The question was: Will you meet me tomorrow? And the word was: Yes.
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For a second I feel a rush of sadness: for the horizons that vanish behind us, for the people we leave behind, the tiny-doll selves that get stored away and ultimately buried.
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Things change after you die, though, I guess because dying is the loneliest thing you can do.
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I can admit, now, that I must have loved Lena. Not in an Unnatural way, but my feelings for her must have been a kind of sickness. How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust--and also to make you feel so whole?
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Direction, like time, is a general thing, the deprived of boundaries and borders. It is an endless process interception and reinterception, doubling back and adjusting.
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It's as though the words are trapped, buried under past fears, past lives, like fossils compressed under layers of dirt.
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I wonder if this is how people always get close: They heal each other's wounds they repair the broken skin.
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A string of bright white buildinh, glistening like teeth over the slurping mouth of the ocean.
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