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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.

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
Always
Beautiful
Summer
Time
Thought
Became
Look
Pretty
Firsts
Year
Looks
Lasts
First
Point
Long
Last
Lena
Years
Actually
Occurs

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I'm starved for different light, a different sun,different sky.
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People could push and pull at you, and poke you, and probe as deep as they could go. They could even tear you apart, bit by bit. But at the heart and root and soul of you, something would remain untouched.
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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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But hope got in, no matter how hard and fast I tried to stomp it out. Like these tiny fire ants we used to get in Portland. No matter how fast you liked them, there were always more, a steady stream of them, resistant, ever-multiplying. Maybe, the hope said. Maybe.
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Some things are better left buried and forgotten.
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Waste today, want tomorrow.
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It strikes me how strange people are. You can see them every day - you can think you know them - and then you fшnd out you hardly know them at all.
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I don't know whether these feelings - this thing growing inside of me - is something horrible and sick or the best thing that's ever happened to me. Either way, I can't stop it. I've lost control. And the truly sick thing is that despite everything, I'm glad.
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Requiem has been controversial because people dont feel I gave it closure.
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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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Let me tell you something about dying: it's not as bad as they says. it's the coming-back-to-life part that hurts.
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The second time my world exploded, it was also because of a word. A word that worked its way out of my throat and danced onto and out of my lips before I could think about it, or stop it. The question was: Will you meet me tomorrow? And the word was: Yes.
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Music, I think, he makes me feel like music
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But how could anyone who's ever seen a summer - big explosion of green and skies lit up electric with splashy sunsets, a riot of flowers and wind that smells like honey - pick the snow?
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No wonder the regulators decided on segregation of boys and girls: Otherwise, it would have been a nightmare, this feeling angry and self-conscious and confused and annoyed all the time.
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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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Live free or die.
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It's the way he says my name: like music.
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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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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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