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

More quotes by Lauren Oliver

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I’m with Julian,” I say at last. This, after all, is what I have chosen.
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Raven jerks and stiffens. For a second, I think she is only surprised: Her mouth goes round, her eyes wide. Then she begins teetering backward, and I know that she is dead. Falling, falling, falling . . .
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I hate both of my parents right now: for sitting quietly in our house, while out in the darkness my heart was beating away all of the seconds of my life, ticking them off one by one until my time was up for letting the thread between us stretch so far and so thin that the moment it was severed for good they didn't even feel it.
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The hours here are flat and round, disks of gray layered one on top of the other...they move slowly, at a grind, until it seems as though they are not moving at all. They are just pressing down.
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That's what Zombieland is: frozen, calm, quiet.
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Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging up your back and runing its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do-the only thing-is run.
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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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Time jumps. It leaps. It pours away like water through fingers.
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This is the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you.
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No guest rooms.” I shake my head resolutely. “I want to be in a room room. A lived-in room.
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I know the past will drag you backward and down, have you snatching at whispers of wind and the gibberish of trees rubbing together, trying to decipher some code, trying to piece together what was broken. It's hopeless. The past is nothing but a weight. It will build inside you like a stone.
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There are no happy endings, only breaks in the regular action.
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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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People could push and pull at you, and poke you, and probe as deep as they could go. They could even tear you apart, bit by bit. But at the heart and root and soul of you, something would remain untouched.
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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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And then, just at that moment, when I'm no longer sure if I'm dreaming or awake or walking some valley in between where everything you wish for comes true, I feel the flutter of his lips on mine.
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Welcome to the free world. We give people the power to choose. They can even choose the wrong thing. Beautiful, isn't it?
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So far I've seen the life studies packet used as (1) an umbrella, (2) a makeshift towel, (3) a pillow, and now this. I have never actually seen anyone study with it, which either means that everyone who graduates from Thomas Jefferson will be totally unprepared for life or that certain things can't be learned in bullet-point format.
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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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Funny how time heals. Like that bullet in my ribs. It's there, I know it's there, but I can barely feel it at all anymore.
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