Quote

Droplets, droplets: we are all identical drips and drops of people, hovering, waiting to be tipped, waiting for someone to show us the way, to pour us down a path.

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
Someone
Hovering
Way
Drops
People
Pour
Identical
Path
Waiting
Drips
Show
Droplets
Shows
Tipped

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Everything looks beautiful. The Book of Shhh says that deliria alters your perception, disables your ability to reason clearly, impairs you from making sound judgments. But it does not tell you this: that love will turn the whole world into something greater than itself.
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Funny how certain things stay with you.
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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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People need other people to feel things for them, she said. It gets lonely to feel things all by yourself.
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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 said, I prefer the ocean when it's gray. Or not really gray. A pale, in-between color. It reminds me of waiting for something good to happen.
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There are no happy endings, only breaks in the regular action.
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They’d already taken her from me once. I didn’t want to lose her again.
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Lindsay calls them the Pugs: pretty from far away, ugly up close.
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Some things are better left buried and forgotten.
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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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My heart is fluid and soaring. There's no longer any space between heartbeats.
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The idea—the fact of it, the fact that he even noticed and thought about me for more than one second—is huge and overwhelming, makes my legs go tingly and my hands feel numb.
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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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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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That's the thing: We didn't really care. A world without love is also a world without stakes.
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And for a moment―for a split second―everything else falls away, the whole pattern and order of my life, and a huge joy crests in my chest. I am no one, and I owe nothing to anybody, and my life is my own.
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