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Maybe before you die, it's your ghosts you see.

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
Dies
Ghosts
Ghost
Maybe

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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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Love: It will kill you and save you, both
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I am now officially married to Fred Hargrove. Nothing will ever be the same.
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It's Connecticut: being like the people around you is the whole point.
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Hope keeps you alive.
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I’m with Julian,” I say at last. This, after all, is what I have chosen.
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...and once at Hana's house, when we stole some blackberry liqueur from her parents' liquor cabinet and drank until the ceiling started spinning overhead. Hana was laughing and giggling, but I didn't like it, didn't like the sweet sick taste in my mouth or the way my thoughts seemed to break apart like a mist in the sun.
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He is my world and my world is him and without him there is no world.
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Po flickered. Thank you? it repeated. What is that? Liesl thought. It means, You were wonderful, she said. It means, I couldn't have done it without you.
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So are you going to be my knight in shining armor or what?' Kent does a little bow. 'You know I can't resist a damsel in distress.
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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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Because if it weren’t for me, Lena and Alex would never have been caught at all. I told on them. I was jealous.
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I know what the problem is, of course. The disorientation, the distraction, the difficulty focusing - all classic Phase One signs of deliria. But I don't care. If pneumonia felt this good I'd stand out in the snow in the winter with bare feet and no coat, or march into the hospital and kiss pneumonia patients
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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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you have to understand. i wasn't just thinking of me. i was thinking of her, too.
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It's amazing how close I have been, all this time, to my old life. And yet the distance that divides me from it is vast.
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Of all the miracles Po had seen in the time and space of its death, Po thought this--the absorption of another, the carrying of it--was the most bewildering and remarkable of all. Whenever Bundle separated again, Po was left with an ache of sadness that reminded the ghost of the body it had left behind.
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Droplets, droplets: we are all identical drips and drops of people, hovering, waiting to be tipped, waiting for someone to show us the way, to pour us down a path.
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The house, the pond, the tree-it was all both overwhelmingly familiar and different from what she remembered-smaller and shabbier, somehow. It was like waking up to find that your reflection in the mirror had aged overnight, or had sprouted a new mole: You were forced to admit that things changed, whether you gave them permission to or not.
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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?
Lauren Oliver