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This is what hatred is. It will feed you and at the same time turn you to rot.

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
Feed
Hatred
Turn
Turns
Time
Blockades

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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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I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.
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I’ve always hated being looked at.
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It's Connecticut: being like the people around you is the whole point.
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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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I'll find you, he says, watching me with the eyes I remember. I won't let you go again
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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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That's the thing about faith. It works.
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That's what Zombieland is: frozen, calm, quiet.
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amazingly, i'd actually forgotten that i'm supposed to be plain. i'm so used to alex telling me i'm beautiful. i'm so used to feeling beautiful around him. a hollow opens up in my chest. this is what life will be like without him: everything will become ordinary again. i'll become ordinary again.
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My heart is fluid and soaring. There's no longer any space between heartbeats.
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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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It's too late. I've seen things...I've lost things you can't understand.
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I hate both of my parents right now: for sitting quietly in our house, while out in the darkness my heart was beating away all of the seconds of my life, ticking them off one by one until my time was up for letting the thread between us stretch so far and so thin that the moment it was severed for good they didn't even feel it.
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There's a place for everything and everyone, you know. That is the mistake they make above. They think that only certain people have a place. Only certain kinds of people belong. The rest is waste. But even waste must have a place. Otherwise it will clog and clot, and rot and fester.
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I have had to give up so much, so many selves and lives already. I have grown up and out of the rubble of my old lives, of things and people I have cared for.
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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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Love: a single word, a wispy thing, a word no bigger or longer than an edge.
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That's when you realize that most of it-life, the relentless mechanism of existing-isn't about you. It doesn't include you at all. It will thrust onward even after you've jumped the edge. Even after you're dead.
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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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