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Everywhere he touches is fire. My whole body is burning up, the two of us becoming twin points of the same bright white flame.

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
White
Flame
Two
Flames
Body
Points
Whole
Bright
Burning
Everywhere
Twin
Becoming
Touches
Fire
Twins

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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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I know what the problem is, of course. The disorientation, the distraction, the difficulty focusing - all classic Phase One signs of deliria. But I don't care. If pneumonia felt this good I'd stand out in the snow in the winter with bare feet and no coat, or march into the hospital and kiss pneumonia patients
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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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What glitters may not be gold and even wolves may smile and fools will be led by promises to their deaths.
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Maybe this is the secret to talking to boys--maybe you just have to be angry all the time.
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An eye for an eye. And the whole world goes blind, Coral puts in quietly.
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Amazing how hope lives. Without air or water, with hardly anything at all to nurture it.
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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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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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I don't know whether these feelings - this thing growing inside of me - is something horrible and sick or the best thing that's ever happened to me. Either way, I can't stop it. I've lost control. And the truly sick thing is that despite everything, I'm glad.
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It's like high school holds two different worlds, revolving around each other an never touching the haves and the have-nots. I guess it's a good thing. High school is supposed to prepare you for the real world, after all.
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I know some of you are Thinking maybe I deserved it. But before you start pointing Fringers, let me ask you Is what I did really so bad? So bad I deserved to die? So bad I deserved to die like that? Is what I did really much worse Then what anybody else does? Is it really so much worse Than what you do?
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Love: a single word, a wispy thing, a word no bigger or longer than an edge.
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I still wanted to know why. As though somebody was going to answer that for me, as though any answer would be satisfying.
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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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Alex is dead, do you hear me? All of that-what we felt, what it meant- that's done now, okay? Buried. Blown away.
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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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So are you going to be my knight in shining armor or what?' Kent does a little bow. 'You know I can't resist a damsel in distress.
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