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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: 42
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Westchester County
New York
Make
Careless
Rage
Useful
Anger
Becomes
Point
Certain

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I think of Grace and feel a sharp pain in my chest.
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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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Because if it weren’t for me, Lena and Alex would never have been caught at all. I told on them. I was jealous.
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It's like a razor blade edging its way through my organs, shredding me, all I can think is: It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.
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All this time, I thought we were growing apart because I was leaving Lena behind. But really it was the reverse. She was learning to lie. She was learning to love.
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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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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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Every choice is limited. That's life.
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For a moment, my heart aches for him. I should never have asked him to join me here I should never have asked him to cross.
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You see, we didn't know.
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Everywhere he touches is fire. My whole body is burning up, the two of us becoming twin points of the same bright white flame.
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I want to know. His words are a whisper, barely audible. I want to know with you.
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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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I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.
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That was what her parents did not understand—and had never understood—about stories. Liza told herself storied as though she was weaving and knotting an endless rope. Then, no matter how dark or terrible the pit she found herself in, she could pull herself out, inch by inch and hand over hand, on the long rope of stories.
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The salt blowing off the sea makes the air feel textured and heavy.
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Love, the deadliest of all things: It kills you both when you have it and when you don't. But that isn't it, exactly. The condemner and the condemned. The executioner the blade the last-minute reprieve the gasping breath and the rolling sky above you and the thank you, thank you, thank you God. Love: It will kill you and save you, both.
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I get that rush that comes when you know you're doing something wrong and are getting away with it, like stealing from the school cafeteria of getting tipsy at a family holiday without anyone knowing it.
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It's like there's a filter set up in my brain, except instead of making things better, it twists everything around so what comes out of my mouth is totally wrong, totally different from what I was thinking.
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Music, I think, he makes me feel like music
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