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But from the beginning, I knew that in a world where destiny was dead, I was destined, forever, to love him. Even though he didn't - though he couldn't - ever love me back.

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
Even
Couldn
Love
Dead
World
Knew
Forever
Though
Didn
Destined
Back
Destiny
Ever
Beginning

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The devil stole into the Garden of Eden. He carried with him the disease - amor deliria nervosa - in the form of a seed. It grew and flowered into a magnificent apple tree, which bore apples as bright as blood. -From Genesis: A Complete History of the World and the Known Universe, by Steven Horace, PhD, Harvard University
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You don't reach points in life at which everything is sorted out for us. I believe in endings that should suggest our stories always continue.
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He is my world and my world is him and without him there is no world.
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The first one, we’ll name Blue.
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anything, anything is possible, if you can just see the sky.
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Lindsay calls them the Pugs: pretty from far away, ugly up close.
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I can admit, now, that I must have loved Lena. Not in an Unnatural way, but my feelings for her must have been a kind of sickness. How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust--and also to make you feel so whole?
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I wonder if this is how people always get close: They heal each other's wounds they repair the broken skin.
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Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.
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That's when you realize that most of it-life, the relentless mechanism of existing-isn't about you. It doesn't include you at all. It will thrust onward even after you've jumped the edge. Even after you're dead.
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Even the greatest movements on earth, have their beginnings with something small.
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The Wilds aren't safe anymore.
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I'm so tired after dinner I fall asleep with my clothes on, almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, and so I forget to ask God, in my prayers, to keep me from waking up.
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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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This is the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you.
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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.
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But...books are so much more. Some of them are webs you can feel your way along their threads, but just barely, into strange and dark corners. Some of them are balloons bobbing up through the sky: totally self-contained, and unreachable, but beautiful to watch. And some of them―the best ones―are doors.
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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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As we're standing there I realize we're almost exactly the same height. We must look like the dark and light side of an Oreo cookie, and I think how just as easily it could have been the other way around. She could be blocking my path I could be trying to slip around her into the dark.
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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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