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And there it is: Even though we’re standing in the same patch of sun-drenched pavement, we might as well be a hundred thousand miles apart.
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
Wells
Patches
Might
Apart
Well
Miles
Even
Sun
Standing
Hundred
Drenched
Thousand
Pavement
Though
Patch
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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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The mark of the procedure. A real one. Lu is cured.
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Something must die so that others can live.
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I wonder whether she was sorry for leaving us behind.
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Most of us won't see one another after graduation, and even if we do it will be different. We'll be different. We'll be adults--cured, tagged and labeled and paired and identified and placed neatly on our life path, perfectly round marbles set to roll down even, well-defined slopes.
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That's the beauty of the cure. No one mentions those lost, hot days in the field, when Thomas kissed Rachel's tears away and invented worlds just so he could promise them to her, when she tore the skin off her own arm at the thought of living without him.
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We can never understand. We can only try, fumbling our way through the tunneled places, reaching for light.
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i suppose that's the secret, if you're ever wishing for things to back the way they were. You just have to look up.
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That's what time does: We stand stubbornly like rocks while it flows all around us, believing that we are immutable - and all the time we're being carved, and shaped, and whittled away.
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His secret name, which belongs to me, and to him, and to no one else.
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I don't love you, Lena. Do you hear me? I never love you.
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I’m with Julian,” I say at last. This, after all, is what I have chosen.
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This is not the person I wanted to become: Hatred has carved a permanent place inside me, a hollow where things are so easily lost.
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In one of the tents, Julian is sleeping. And in another: Alex
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