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Grief is like sinking, like being 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
Buried
Grief
Like
Sinking

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I want to be healed and whole and perfect again, like a misshapen slab of iron that comes out of the fire glowing, glittering, razor-sharp.
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There's still always the possibility that I've gone totally, clinically cuckoo. But somehow I don't think so anymore. An article I once read said that crazy people don't worry about being crazy - that's the whole problem.
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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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You should only fall in love with people who will fall in love with you back.
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Less than a month ago all of August still stretched before us - long and golden and reassuring, like an endless period of delicious sleep.
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And you should hear the music. Incredible, amazing music, like nothing you've ever heard, music that almost takes your head off, you know? That makes you want to scream and jump up and down and break stuff and cry.
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I don't love you, Lena. Do you hear me? I never love you.
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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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It was as though the darkness was a sheet of raw cookie dough and someone had just taken a cookie cutter and made a child-sized shape out of it.
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This is not the person I wanted to become: Hatred has carved a permanent place inside me, a hollow where things are so easily lost.
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i feel like a curtain has dropped away and i'm seeing people for who they really are, different, and sharp, and unknowable.
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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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Mice? Fine. Flying mice? Not so fine.
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We should be protected from the people who will leave us in the end, from all the people who will disappear or forget us.
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A string of bright white buildinh, glistening like teeth over the slurping mouth of the ocean.
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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.
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The thing is, you don't get to know. It's not like you wake up with a bad feeling in your stomach. You don't see shadows where there shouldn't be any. You don't remember to tell your parents you love them or--in my case--remember to say good-bye to them at all.
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That is what Alex is now: a shadow-boy
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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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Popularity's a weird thing. You can't really define it, and it's not cool to talk about, but you know it when you see it. Like a lazy eye, or porn.
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