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And when we are with Alex, I might as well not be there. They speak in a language of whispers and giggles and secrets their words are like a fairy-tale tangle of thorns, which place a wall between us.

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
Place
Secrets
Wells
Fairy
Giggles
Might
Tales
Tangle
Well
Wall
Giggle
Like
Secret
Whispers
Words
Alex
Language
Thorns
Speak
Tale

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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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I'd rather die on my own terms than live on theirs. I'd rather die loving Alex than live without him.
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Fear. Blame. Don't forget. Mom. I love you. -Lauren Oliver, Delerium
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When he speaks again, I can tell that he's smiling. So I guess we saved each other.
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If you take, we will take back. Steal from us, and we will rob you blind. When you squeeze, we will hit. This is the way the world is made now.
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Black is too morbid red will set them on edge pink is too juvenile orange is freakish
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As we're standing there I realize we're almost exactly the same height. We must look like the dark and light side of an Oreo cookie, and I think how just as easily it could have been the other way around. She could be blocking my path I could be trying to slip around her into the dark.
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Love: a single word, a wispy thing, a word no bigger or longer than an edge. That's what it is: an edge a razor. It draws up through the center of your life, cutting everything in two. Before and after. The rest of the world falls away on either side.
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One of the strangest things about life is that it will chug on, blind and oblivious, even as your private world - your little carved-out sphere - is twisting and morphing, even breaking apart.
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I think of Grace and feel a sharp pain in my chest.
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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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The priests and the scientists are right about one thing: At our heart, at our base, we are no better than animals.
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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'm used to a feeling of doubleness, of thinking one thing and having to do another, a constant tug-of-war.
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And we did, and it wasn’t bad. We ate the whole stupid can, we were so hungry. And when it started to get dark you pointed to the sky, and told me there was a star for every thing you loved about me.” I’m gasping, feeling as though I am about to drown I’m reaching for him blindly, grabbing at his collar.
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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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