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I want to know. His words are a whisper, barely audible. I want to know with you.

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
Whisper
Barely
Words
Audible

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Nothing has ever been so painful or delicious as being so close to him and being unable to do anything about it: like eating ice cream so fast on a hot day you get a splitting headache.
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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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I'm not ugly but I'm not pretty either. Everything is in-between. I have eyes that aren't green or brown, but a muddle. I'm not thin but I'm not fat either. the only thing you could definitely say about me is that: I'm short
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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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And a face above mine, white and beautiful, eyes as large as the moon. You saved me. A hand on my cheek, cool and dry. Why did you save me? Words welling up on a tide: No, the opposite. Eyes the colour of a dawn sky, a crown of blond hair, so bright and white and blinding I could swear it was a halo.
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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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My first kiss. A new kind of kiss, like the new kind of music still playing, softly, in the distance - wild and arrhythmic, desperate. Passionate.
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And you can't love, not fully, unless you are loved in return.
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It's Connecticut: being like the people around you is the whole point.
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We should be protected from the people who will leave us in the end, from all the people who will disappear or forget us.
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Like I've been sketched by an amateur artist: if you don't look too closely, it's all right, but start focusing and all the smudges and mistakes become really obvious.
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I just want to be normal, like everybody else. Are you sure that being like everybody else will make you happy?
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I wonder whether she was sorry for leaving us behind.
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I close my eyes. An image flashes—emerging from the van with Julian after our escape from New York City believing, in that moment, that we had escaped the worst, that life would begin again for us. Instead life has only grown harder.
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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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He was still in love with you, anyway.
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It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.
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Nothing exists but him.
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This is the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you.
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