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It's like a razor blade edging its way through my organs, shredding me, all I can think is: It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.

Lauren Oliver

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Lauren Oliver
Age: 42
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Westchester County
New York
Way
Shredding
Think
Razor
Thinking
Razors
Like
Blade
Blades
Organs
Kill
Care
Edging

More quotes by Lauren Oliver

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Raven jerks and stiffens. For a second, I think she is only surprised: Her mouth goes round, her eyes wide. Then she begins teetering backward, and I know that she is dead. Falling, falling, falling . . .
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Fridays are the hardest in some ways: you’re so close to freedom.
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The thing is, you don't get to know. It's not like you wake up with a bad feeling in your stomach. You don't see shadows where there shouldn't be any. You don't remember to tell your parents you love them or--in my case--remember to say good-bye to them at all.
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The salt blowing off the sea makes the air feel textured and heavy.
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anything, anything is possible, if you can just see the sky.
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People are like ants: Just a few of them give all the orders. And most of them spend their lives getting squashed.
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But this isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen, or imagined, or even dreamed: This is like music or dancing but better than both.
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There is no before. There is only now, and what comes next.
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And we did, and it wasn’t bad. We ate the whole stupid can, we were so hungry. And when it started to get dark you pointed to the sky, and told me there was a star for every thing you loved about me.” I’m gasping, feeling as though I am about to drown I’m reaching for him blindly, grabbing at his collar.
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I'd rather die on my own terms than live on theirs. I'd rather die loving Alex than live without him.
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People could push and pull at you, and poke you, and probe as deep as they could go. They could even tear you apart, bit by bit. But at the heart and root and soul of you, something would remain untouched.
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I wonder whether she was sorry for leaving us behind.
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And a face above mine, white and beautiful, eyes as large as the moon. You saved me. A hand on my cheek, cool and dry. Why did you save me? Words welling up on a tide: No, the opposite. Eyes the colour of a dawn sky, a crown of blond hair, so bright and white and blinding I could swear it was a halo.
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Of all the miracles Po had seen in the time and space of its death, Po thought this--the absorption of another, the carrying of it--was the most bewildering and remarkable of all. Whenever Bundle separated again, Po was left with an ache of sadness that reminded the ghost of the body it had left behind.
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So far I've seen the life studies packet used as (1) an umbrella, (2) a makeshift towel, (3) a pillow, and now this. I have never actually seen anyone study with it, which either means that everyone who graduates from Thomas Jefferson will be totally unprepared for life or that certain things can't be learned in bullet-point format.
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Maybe this is the secret to talking to boys--maybe you just have to be angry all the time.
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Funny how certain things stay with you.
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I'm starved for different light, a different sun,different sky.
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Hate isn’t the most dangerous thing, he’d said. Indifference is.
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It was a bird. A bird struggling through stickiness: a bird coated in paint, floundering in its nest, splashing color everywhere. Red. Red. Red. Dozens of them: black feathers coated thickly with crimson-colored paint, fluttering among the branches. Red means run.
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