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We should be protected from the people who will leave us in the end, from all the people who will disappear or forget us.

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
Leave
Forget
Ends
People
Protected
Disappear

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Things change after you die, though, I guess because dying is the loneliest thing you can do.
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But...books are so much more. Some of them are webs you can feel your way along their threads, but just barely, into strange and dark corners. Some of them are balloons bobbing up through the sky: totally self-contained, and unreachable, but beautiful to watch. And some of them―the best ones―are doors.
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Promise me we'll stay together, okay? His eyes are once again the clear blue of a perfectly transparent pool. They are eyes to swim in, to float in, forever. You and me. I promise. I say. behind us the door creaks open, and I turn around, expecting Raven, just as a voice cuts through the air: Don't believe her.
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Live free or die.
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I'm so tired after dinner I fall asleep with my clothes on, almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, and so I forget to ask God, in my prayers, to keep me from waking up.
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I wonder if this is how people always get close: They heal each other's wounds they repair the broken skin.
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It won't matter if nobody ever thinks I'm pretty (although sometimes I wish, just for a second, that somebody would)
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Maybe all of these different possibilities exist at the same time, like each moment we live has a thousand other moments layered underneath it that look different.
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I’ve never really had a party before.” “Why did you have one now?” I say, just to keep him talking. He gives a half laugh. “I thought if I had a party, you would come.
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We can never understand. We can only try, fumbling our way through the tunneled places, reaching for light.
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It's an incredible thing, how you can feel so taken care of by someone and yet feel, also, like you would die or do anything just for the chance to protect him back.
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For the first time in a long time, I actually look at her. I've always thought Lena was pretty, but now it occurs to me that at some point - last summer? last year? - she became beautiful.
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An eye for an eye. And the whole world goes blind, Coral puts in quietly.
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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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It's as though the words are trapped, buried under past fears, past lives, like fossils compressed under layers of dirt.
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I just want to be normal, like everybody else. Are you sure that being like everybody else will make you happy?
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I'm not scared, if that's what you're wondering. The moment of death is full of sound and warmth and light shooting away, arcing up and up and up, and if singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing... The rest you have to find out for yourself.
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For a second I feel a rush of sadness: for the horizons that vanish behind us, for the people we leave behind, the tiny-doll selves that get stored away and ultimately buried.
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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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that's what it was like waking up in the crypts. no-longer-dead. but without her. like burning alive.
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