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Someday she will be saved, and the past and all its pain will be rendered as smoothly palatable as the food we spoon to our babies.

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
Past
Spoons
Rendered
Babies
Someday
Saved
Baby
Palatable
Food
Smoothly
Pain
Spoon

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Finishing books - and leaving the world you've created - is always a kind of emotionally wrenching experience. I usually cry.
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I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.
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I start to follow her, and Alex grabs my hand. I'll find you, he says, watching me with the eyes I remember. I won't let you go again. I don't trust myself to speak. Instead I nod, hoping that he understands me. He squeezes my hand. Go, he says.
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That's the beauty of the cure. No one mentions those lost, hot days in the field, when Thomas kissed Rachel's tears away and invented worlds just so he could promise them to her, when she tore the skin off her own arm at the thought of living without him.
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Maybe next time, but probably not.
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Quiet through the grave go I or else beneath the graves I lie
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There are no happy endings, only breaks in the regular action.
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Love. I love you. I’ll always love you, my love. You are the love of my life.
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I think of Grace and feel a sharp pain in my chest.
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He is my world and my world is him and without him there is no world.
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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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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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Maybe before you die, it's your ghosts you see.
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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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I am now officially married to Fred Hargrove. Nothing will ever be the same.
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The house, the pond, the tree-it was all both overwhelmingly familiar and different from what she remembered-smaller and shabbier, somehow. It was like waking up to find that your reflection in the mirror had aged overnight, or had sprouted a new mole: You were forced to admit that things changed, whether you gave them permission to or not.
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Live free or die.
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It was all very strange, Mr. Gray thought, as he wiped the coffee canister clean with a sponge. Very, very mysterious. You were born you lived a whole life and at the end, you wound up in a coffee canister. Ah, well, he said out loud quietly. That's just the way things are. Life's a funny business. Death, he supposed, was the punch line.
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The tunnels may be long, and twisted, and dark but you are supposed to go through them.
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No one can tell us no. No one can make us stop. We have picked each other and the rest of the world can go to hell.
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