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That's what time does: We stand stubbornly like rocks while it flows all around us, believing that we are immutable - and all the time we're being carved, and shaped, and whittled away.

Lauren Oliver

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Lauren Oliver
Age: 41
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Westchester County
New York
Like
Flow
Rocks
Whittled
Stand
Stubbornly
Away
Carved
Around
Immutable
Doe
Flows
Believe
Shaped
Time
Believing

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The first time I saw you, at the Governor, I handn't been to watch the birds at the border in years. But that's what you reminded me of. You were jumping up, and you were yelling something, and your hair was coming loose from your ponytail, and you were so fast... He shakes his head. Just a flash, and then you were gone, Exactly like a bird.
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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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I remember Lena's expression when he knocked on the door and how Alex had looked at her when she finally let him into the storeroom. I remember exactly what he was wearing, too, and the mess of his hair, the sneakers with their blue-tinged laces. His right shoe was untied. He didn't notice. He didn't notice anything but Lena.
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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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My first kiss. A new kind of kiss, like the new kind of music still playing, softly, in the distance - wild and arrhythmic, desperate. Passionate.
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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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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 don't know how i stay on my feet, why i dont just shatter into dust right there, why my heart keeps beating when i want it so badly to stop
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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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Then I think of the dark, and the lights, and the roaring, and Juliet, and before I can think of anything else, I fight the final few steps to the door and step out into the cold, where the rain is still coming down like shards of moonlight, or like steel.
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You came form different starts and you'll come to different ends.
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In a world without love, this is what people are to each other: values, benefits, and liabilities, numbers and data. We weigh, we quantify, we measure, and the soul is ground to dust.
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It's like a razor blade edging its way through my organs, shredding me, all I can think is: It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.
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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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That's all I want. Just you and me. Always.
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I don't know where to go. I don't know what comes now. Don't worry, Will said. We'll figure something out. Liesl managed to smile at him. She liked that word: *we*. It sounded warm and open, like a hug.
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And how she looked at me like I could save her from everything bad in he world. This was my secret: she was the one who saved me
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All this time, I thought we were growing apart because I was leaving Lena behind. But really it was the reverse. She was learning to lie. She was learning to love.
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This is not the person I wanted to become: Hatred has carved a permanent place inside me, a hollow where things are so easily lost.
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But how could anyone who's ever seen a summer - big explosion of green and skies lit up electric with splashy sunsets, a riot of flowers and wind that smells like honey - pick the snow?
Lauren Oliver