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Now I'd rather be infected with love for the tiniest sliver of a second than live a hundred years smothered by a lie.
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
Years
Tiniest
Love
Infected
Delirium
Hundred
Second
Lying
Rather
Sliver
Live
Smothered
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This is not the person I wanted to become: Hatred has carved a permanent place inside me, a hollow where things are so easily lost.
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But hope got in, no matter how hard and fast I tried to stomp it out. Like these tiny fire ants we used to get in Portland. No matter how fast you liked them, there were always more, a steady stream of them, resistant, ever-multiplying. Maybe, the hope said. Maybe.
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Love: a single word, a wispy thing, a word no bigger or longer than an edge. That's what it is: an edge a razor. It draws up through the center of your life, cutting everything in two. Before and after. The rest of the world falls away on either side.
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I close my eyes. An image flashes—emerging from the van with Julian after our escape from New York City believing, in that moment, that we had escaped the worst, that life would begin again for us. Instead life has only grown harder.
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Please understand. Please forgive me. I prayed every day for you to be alive, until hope became painful. Don't hate me. I still love you.
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Love. I love you. I’ll always love you, my love. You are the love of my life.
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