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Stupid how the mind will try to distract itself.

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
Mind
Distract
Stupid
Trying

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But the guilt goes even deeper than that. It, too, is dust: Layers and layers of it have accumulated. Because if it weren’t for me, Lena and Alex would never have been caught at all. I told on them. I was jealous. God forgive me, for I have sinned.
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that's what it was like waking up in the crypts. no-longer-dead. but without her. like burning alive.
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A string of bright white buildinh, glistening like teeth over the slurping mouth of the ocean.
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you have to understand. i wasn't just thinking of me. i was thinking of her, too.
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Alex loved books. He was the one who first introduced me to poetry. That's another reason I can't read anymore.
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And for a moment―for a split second―everything else falls away, the whole pattern and order of my life, and a huge joy crests in my chest. I am no one, and I owe nothing to anybody, and my life is my own.
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Requiem has been controversial because people dont feel I gave it closure.
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That is the rule of the Wilds: You must be bigger and stronger and tougher. You must hurt or be hurt.
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But...books are so much more. Some of them are webs you can feel your way along their threads, but just barely, into strange and dark corners. Some of them are balloons bobbing up through the sky: totally self-contained, and unreachable, but beautiful to watch. And some of them―the best ones―are doors.
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Maybe before you die, it's your ghosts you see.
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If singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing.
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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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But if you do believe, then you already know all about magic.
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I know that the whole point—the only point—is to find the things that matter, and hold on to them, and fight for them, and refuse to let them go.
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I cry for everything I abandoned and because I, too, have been left behind -- by Alex, by my mom, by time that has cut through our worlds and separated us.
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I'm overwhelmed with sadness for everything that was lost, and filled with anger toward the people who took it away. My people-or at least, my old people. I don't know who I am anymore, or where I belong. That's not totally true...I know I belong with Alex.
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I’ve always hated being looked at.
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I'm not scared, if that's what you're wondering. The moment of death is full of sound and warmth and light shooting away, arcing up and up and up, and if singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing... The rest you have to find out for yourself.
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It's funny how you can know your friends so well, but you still end up playing the same games with them.
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I love you. They can't take it away.
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