Quote

For a second I feel a rush of sadness: for the horizons that vanish behind us, for the people we leave behind, the tiny-doll selves that get stored away and ultimately buried.

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
Second
Rush
Leave
Horizon
Away
Buried
Doll
Self
Ultimately
Horizons
Feel
Sadness
Stored
Feels
Tiny
Vanish
People
Behinds
Dolls
Behind
Selves

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It's not my fault I can't be like you, okay? I don't get up in the morning thinking the world is one big, shiny, happy place, okay? That's just not how I work. I don't think I can be fixed.
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Everything ends, people move on, they don't look back. It's how they should be.
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That's the thing: We didn't really care. A world without love is also a world without stakes.
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Of course. That's what people do in a disordered world, a world of freedom and choice: they leave when they want. They disappear, they come back, they leave again. And you are left to pick up the pieces on your own.
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Love: It will kill you and save you, both
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Maybe before you die, it's your ghosts you see.
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Quiet through the grave go I or else beneath the graves I lie
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I've learned to get really good at this - say one thing when I'm thinking about something else, act like I'm listening when I'm not, pretend to be calm and happy when I'm really freaking out. It's one of the skills you perfect as you get older
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only when it rains. and sometimes, too, when i remember.
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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 was a bird. A bird struggling through stickiness: a bird coated in paint, floundering in its nest, splashing color everywhere. Red. Red. Red. Dozens of them: black feathers coated thickly with crimson-colored paint, fluttering among the branches. Red means run.
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He's stuck with me and I'm stuck with him. We're stuck. That's what growing up is all about, I guess.
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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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Things would get difficult again. But that was okay too. The bravery was in moving forward, no matter what.
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For the first time in a long time, I actually look at her. I've always thought Lena was pretty, but now it occurs to me that at some point - last summer? last year? - she became beautiful.
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I start to back away before I do something wildly inappropriate, like jump on top of him.
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Why couldn't you let me have it? Why did you have to take it? Why did you always take everything?
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But maybe happiness isn't in the choosing. Maybe it's in the fiction, in the pretending: that wherever we have ended up is where we intended to be all along.
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Then I think of the dark, and the lights, and the roaring, and Juliet, and before I can think of anything else, I fight the final few steps to the door and step out into the cold, where the rain is still coming down like shards of moonlight, or like steel.
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