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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.

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
Skin
Skins
Close
Broken
Pandemonium
Wonder
Repair
Always
Intimacy
People
Wounds
Heal

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All this time, I thought we were growing apart because I was leaving Lena behind. But really it was the reverse. She was learning to lie. She was learning to love.
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When we get out of highschool we'll look back and know we did everything right, that we kissed the cutest boys and went to the best parties, got in just enough trouble, listened to our music too loud, smoked too many cigarettes, and drank too much and laughed too much and listened too little, or not al all.
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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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I love you. They can't take it away.
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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 will make a pact with you: I will do it if you will do it, always and forever. Take down the walls.
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Of course. That's what people do in a disordered world, a world of freedom and choice: they leave when they want. They disappear, they come back, they leave again. And you are left to pick up the pieces on your own.
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Now I'd rather be infected with love for the tiniest sliver of a second than live a hundred years smothered by a lie.
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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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Funny how certain things stay with you.
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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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Maybe before you die, it's your ghosts you see.
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This is what happens when you try to help people. You get screwed.
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Funny how time heals. Like that bullet in my ribs. It's there, I know it's there, but I can barely feel it at all anymore.
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Every choice is limited. That's life.
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You can try to pin me down with a hundred thousand arms, but I will find a way to resist
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And for a moment―for a split second―everything else falls away, the whole pattern and order of my life, and a huge joy crests in my chest. I am no one, and I owe nothing to anybody, and my life is my own.
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Even the greatest movements on earth, have their beginnings with something small.
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You see, we didn't know.
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Direction, like time, is a general thing, the deprived of boundaries and borders. It is an endless process interception and reinterception, doubling back and adjusting.
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