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

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Of all the miracles Po had seen in the time and space of its death, Po thought this--the absorption of another, the carrying of it--was the most bewildering and remarkable of all. Whenever Bundle separated again, Po was left with an ache of sadness that reminded the ghost of the body it had left behind.
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We are always being pushed and squeezed down one road or another. We have no choice but to step forward, and then step forward again, and then step forward again suddenly we find ourselves on a road we haven't chosen at all.
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I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.
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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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I’m with Julian,” I say at last. This, after all, is what I have chosen.
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It's so strange how life works: You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it's taking forever to come. Then it happens and it's over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed.
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Nothing has ever been so painful or delicious as being so close to him and being unable to do anything about it: like eating ice cream so fast on a hot day you get a splitting headache.
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Direction, like time, is a general thing, the deprived of boundaries and borders. It is an endless process interception and reinterception, doubling back and adjusting.
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Even the greatest movements on earth, have their beginnings with something small.
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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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Finishing books - and leaving the world you've created - is always a kind of emotionally wrenching experience. I usually cry.
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Live free or die.
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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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My heart is fluid and soaring. There's no longer any space between heartbeats.
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The sparrows jumped before they knew how to fly, and they learned to fly only because they had jumped.
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It occurs to me that for a long time she has been doing her own version of resisting.
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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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He looked at me like I was beautiful.
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The kidnapping, the kiss. I brought him here, after all. I rescue him an pulled him into this new life, a life of freedom and feeling.
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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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