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Rainstorms are incredible: falling shards of glass, the air full of diamonds.
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
Glass
Incredible
Falling
Glasses
Air
Rainstorms
Full
Shards
Fall
Diamonds
Diamond
More quotes by Lauren Oliver
Once Mo had closed the gates, he returned to his little stone hut, and his half-eaten sandwich of butter and canned sardines, and his mug of thick hot chocolate, which every night he poured carefully into a thermos labeled COFFEE.
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There are some losses we never get over.
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The hours here are flat and round, disks of gray layered one on top of the other...they move slowly, at a grind, until it seems as though they are not moving at all. They are just pressing down.
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Everywhere he touches is fire. My whole body is burning up, the two of us becoming twin points of the same bright white flame.
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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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Most people don't want to be saved. Besides, if you keep bailing everybody out, they'll never learn to paddle on their own.
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I wonder whether she was sorry for leaving us behind.
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Lies are just stories, and stories are all that matter. We all tell stories. Some are more truthful than others, maybe, but in the end the only thing that counts is what you can make people believe.
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One of the strangest things about life is that it will chug on, blind and oblivious, even as your private world - your little carved-out sphere - is twisting and morphing, even breaking apart.
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Grief is like sinking, like being buried.
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This was what true fear was--that you could never know other people, not completely. That you were always just guessing blind.
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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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Poetry isn't like any writing I've ever heard before. I don't understand all of it, just bits of images, sentences that appear half-finished, all fluttering together like brightly colored ribbons in the wind.
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I want to be healed and whole and perfect again, like a misshapen slab of iron that comes out of the fire glowing, glittering, razor-sharp.
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Alex loved books. He was the one who first introduced me to poetry. That's another reason I can't read anymore.
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Everything in me feels fluttering and free, like I could take off from the ground at any second. Music, I think, he makes me feel like music.
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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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But how could anyone who's ever seen a summer - big explosion of green and skies lit up electric with splashy sunsets, a riot of flowers and wind that smells like honey - pick the snow?
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My heart is fluid and soaring. There's no longer any space between heartbeats.
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Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.
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