Quote

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.

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
Hot
Returned
Canned
Coffee
Eaten
Mug
Stones
Carefully
Huts
Half
Thick
Labeled
Night
Gates
Sandwich
Littles
Chocolate
Poured
Little
Closed
Sandwiches
Thermos
Every
Stone
Butter
Sardines

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It's so strange how life works: You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it's taking forever to come. Then it happens and it's over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed.
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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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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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I wonder whether she was sorry for leaving us behind.
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Raven has lost deeply, again and again, and she, too, has buried herself. There are pieces of her scattered all over. Her heart is nestled next to a small set of bones buried beside a frozen river, which will emerge with the spring thaw, a skeleton ship rising out of the water”.
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The salt blowing off the sea makes the air feel textured and heavy.
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Kent? I say, and my voice seems to have to rise from inside the fog, taking forever to get from my brain to my mouth. Yeah? Promise you'll stay here with me? I say. I promise, he whispers.
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Love obeys no laws other than its own.
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Not gray, exactly. Right before the sun rises there's a moment when the whole sky goes this pale nothing color-not really gray but sort of, or sort of white, and I've always really liked it because it reminds me of waiting for something good to happen.
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I'm overwhelmed with sadness for everything that was lost, and filled with anger toward the people who took it away. My people-or at least, my old people. I don't know who I am anymore, or where I belong. That's not totally true...I know I belong with Alex.
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I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.
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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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People are like houses. They could open their doors. You could walk through their rooms and touch the objects hidden in their corners. But something--the structure, the wiring, the invisible mechanism that kept the whole thing standing--remai ned invisible, suggested only by the fact of its existing at all.
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anything, anything is possible, if you can just see the sky.
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I love you. Remember. And someday, I will find you again.
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The last laugh, the last cup of coffee, the last sunset, the last time you jump through a sprinkler, or eat an ice-cream cone, or stick your tongue out to catch a snowflake. You just don't know.
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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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Rainstorms are incredible: falling shards of glass, the air full of diamonds.
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