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Anger is useful only to a certain point. After that, it becomes rage, and rage will make you careless.

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
Useful
Anger
Becomes
Point
Certain
Make
Careless
Rage

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Finishing books - and leaving the world you've created - is always a kind of emotionally wrenching experience. I usually cry.
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Sometimes I'm afraid to go to sleep because of what I'm leaving behind.
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My parents were pretty liberal, but they were still parents. I definitely had my teenage rebellion.
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The kidnapping, the kiss. I brought him here, after all. I rescue him an pulled him into this new life, a life of freedom and feeling.
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They’d already taken her from me once. I didn’t want to lose her again.
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It's as though the words are trapped, buried under past fears, past lives, like fossils compressed under layers of dirt.
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For the first time in my life I actually feel sorry for Carol. I'm only seventeen years old, and I already know something she doesn't know: I know that life isn't life if you just float through it. I know that the whole point- the only point- is to find things that matter, and hold on to them, and fight for them, and refuse to let them go.
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There are no happy endings, only breaks in the regular action.
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Huamns, uregulated, are cruel and capricious violet and selfish miserable and quarrelsome. It is only after their instincts and basic emotions have been controlled that they can be happy, generous, and good.
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Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.
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Love. I love you. I’ll always love you, my love. You are the love of my life.
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And how she looked at me like I could save her from everything bad in he world. This was my secret: she was the one who saved me
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And you can't love, not fully, unless you are loved in return.
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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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He is my world and my world is him and without him there is no world.
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He looked at me like I was beautiful.
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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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anything, anything is possible, if you can just see the sky.
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There are more of us than you think.
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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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