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It won't matter if nobody ever thinks I'm pretty (although sometimes I wish, just for a second, that somebody would)

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
Somebody
Pretty
Wish
Ever
Matter
Thinks
Sometimes
Although
Would
Nobody
Thinking
Second

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That's all I want. Just you and me. Always.
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The first one, we’ll name Blue.
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Requiem has been controversial because people dont feel I gave it closure.
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But this isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen, or imagined, or even dreamed: This is like music or dancing but better than both.
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The last laugh, the last cup of coffee, the last sunset, the last time you jump through a sprinkler, or eat an ice-cream cone, or stick your tongue out to catch a snowflake. You just don't know.
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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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The whole point of growing up is learning to stay on the laughing side.
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I start to back away before I do something wildly inappropriate, like jump on top of him.
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It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.
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Rainstorms are incredible: falling shards of glass, the air full of diamonds.
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Nothing exists but him.
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The Wilds aren't safe anymore.
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This is the strange way of the world, that people who simply want to love are instead forced to become warriors.
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I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.
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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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When we get out of highschool we'll look back and know we did everything right, that we kissed the cutest boys and went to the best parties, got in just enough trouble, listened to our music too loud, smoked too many cigarettes, and drank too much and laughed too much and listened too little, or not al all.
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Not gray, exactly. Right before the sun rises there's a moment when the whole sky goes this pale nothing color-not really gray but sort of, or sort of white, and I've always really liked it because it reminds me of waiting for something good to happen.
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I love you. They can't take it away.
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It was a bird. A bird struggling through stickiness: a bird coated in paint, floundering in its nest, splashing color everywhere. Red. Red. Red. Dozens of them: black feathers coated thickly with crimson-colored paint, fluttering among the branches. Red means run.
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There's a place for everything and everyone, you know. That is the mistake they make above. They think that only certain people have a place. Only certain kinds of people belong. The rest is waste. But even waste must have a place. Otherwise it will clog and clot, and rot and fester.
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