Quote

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.

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
Little
Oblivious
Even
Sphere
Things
Spheres
Life
Breaking
Chug
World
Apart
Morphing
Private
Twisting
Blind
Strangest
Littles
Carved

More quotes by Lauren Oliver

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I’m sorry for everything.” Then he turns and pushes back into the woods, and he’s gone.
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My first kiss. A new kind of kiss, like the new kind of music still playing, softly, in the distance - wild and arrhythmic, desperate. Passionate.
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It was unfair that people could pretend to be one thing when they were really something else. That they would get you on their side and then do nothing but fail, and fail, and fail again. People should come with warnings, like cigarette packs: involvement would kill you over time.
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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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That is the rule of the Wilds: You must be bigger and stronger and tougher. You must hurt or be hurt.
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I want to know. His words are a whisper, barely audible. I want to know with you.
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I said, I prefer the ocean when it's gray. Or not really gray. A pale, in-between color. It reminds me of waiting for something good to happen.
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Nothing has ever been so painful or delicious as being so close to him and being unable to do anything about it: like eating ice cream so fast on a hot day you get a splitting headache.
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Every choice is limited. That's life.
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I love you. Remember. And someday, I will find you again.
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I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.
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Snapshots, moments, mere seconds: as fragile and beautiful and hopeless as a single butterfly, flapping on against a gathering wind.
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He was still in love with you, anyway.
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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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The priests and the scientists are right about one thing: At our heart, at our base, we are no better than animals.
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Amazing how hope lives. Without air or water, with hardly anything at all to nurture it.
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They’d already taken her from me once. I didn’t want to lose her again.
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Less than a month ago all of August still stretched before us - long and golden and reassuring, like an endless period of delicious sleep.
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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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This is what hatred is. It will feed you and at the same time turn you to rot.
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