Quote

Po flickered. Thank you? it repeated. What is that? Liesl thought. It means, You were wonderful, she said. It means, I couldn't have done it without you.

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
Mean
Repeated
Thank
Couldn
Wonderful
Means
Thought
Without
Done
Flickered

More quotes by Lauren Oliver

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Feelings aren't forever. Time waits for no one, but progress waits for man to enact it.
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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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Alex loved books. He was the one who first introduced me to poetry. That's another reason I can't read anymore.
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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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I didn't realize then what a privilege that was: to be bored with your best friend to have time to waste.
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Popularity's a weird thing. You can't really define it, and it's not cool to talk about, but you know it when you see it. Like a lazy eye, or porn.
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Waste today, want tomorrow.
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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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Old words words that nearly brought me to my knees. Live free or die
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Maybe all of these different possibilities exist at the same time, like each moment we live has a thousand other moments layered underneath it that look different.
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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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Amazing how hope lives. Without air or water, with hardly anything at all to nurture it.
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Lindsay calls them the Pugs: pretty from far away, ugly up close.
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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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people do terrible things, sometimes, for the best reasons.
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Maybe next time, but probably not.
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This was what being cured was like: like being in a fishbowl, circling always inside the same glass.
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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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For the first time in a long time, I actually look at her. I've always thought Lena was pretty, but now it occurs to me that at some point - last summer? last year? - she became beautiful.
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Poetry isn't like any writing I've ever heard before. I don't understand all of it, just bits of images, sentences that appear half-finished, all fluttering together like brightly colored ribbons in the wind.
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