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Huamns, uregulated, are cruel and capricious violet and selfish miserable and quarrelsome. It is only after their instincts and basic emotions have been controlled that they can be happy, generous, and good.

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
Good
Generous
Selfish
Miserable
Quarrelsome
Emotions
Capricious
Basic
Violet
Instinct
Instincts
Emotion
Cruel
Happy
Controlled

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His eyes are the color of honey. These are the eyes I remember from my dreams.
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My heart shoots into my throat every time I think I see his loping walk, or catch sight of some floppy brown hair on a boy - but it's never him, and each time it isn't, my heart does a reverse trajectory down into the very pit of my stomach.
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You see, we didn't know.
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The sparrows jumped before they knew how to fly, and they learned to fly only because they had jumped.
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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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Things would get difficult again. But that was okay too. The bravery was in moving forward, no matter what.
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I know that the whole point—the only point—is to find the things that matter, and hold on to them, and fight for them, and refuse to let them go.
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It was as though the darkness was a sheet of raw cookie dough and someone had just taken a cookie cutter and made a child-sized shape out of it.
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The Wilds aren't safe anymore.
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It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.
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Someday she will be saved, and the past and all its pain will be rendered as smoothly palatable as the food we spoon to our babies.
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My heart is fluid and soaring. There's no longer any space between heartbeats.
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you have to understand. i wasn't just thinking of me. i was thinking of her, too.
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I know some of you are Thinking maybe I deserved it. But before you start pointing Fringers, let me ask you Is what I did really so bad? So bad I deserved to die? So bad I deserved to die like that? Is what I did really much worse Then what anybody else does? Is it really so much worse Than what you do?
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If singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing.
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Quiet through the grave go I or else beneath the graves I lie
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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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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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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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that's what it was like waking up in the crypts. no-longer-dead. but without her. like burning alive.
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