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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: 41
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Westchester County
New York
Thinking
Second
Somebody
Pretty
Wish
Ever
Matter
Thinks
Sometimes
Although
Would
Nobody

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Direction, like time, is a general thing, the deprived of boundaries and borders. It is an endless process interception and reinterception, doubling back and adjusting.
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amazingly, i'd actually forgotten that i'm supposed to be plain. i'm so used to alex telling me i'm beautiful. i'm so used to feeling beautiful around him. a hollow opens up in my chest. this is what life will be like without him: everything will become ordinary again. i'll become ordinary again.
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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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We should be protected from the people who will leave us in the end, from all the people who will disappear or forget us.
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But you can build a future out of anything. A scrap, a flicker. The desire to go forward, slowly, one foot at a time. You can build an airy city out of ruins.
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No wonder the regulators decided on segregation of boys and girls: Otherwise, it would have been a nightmare, this feeling angry and self-conscious and confused and annoyed all the time.
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The thing is, you don't get to know. It's not like you wake up with a bad feeling in your stomach. You don't see shadows where there shouldn't be any. You don't remember to tell your parents you love them or--in my case--remember to say good-bye to them at all.
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Quiet through the grave go I or else beneath the graves I lie
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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?
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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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In one of the tents, Julian is sleeping. And in another: Alex
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Time jumps. It leaps. It pours away like water through fingers.
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Hate isn’t the most dangerous thing, he’d said. Indifference is.
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Grief is like sinking, like being buried.
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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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Everyone just wasting time because they have so much of it to waste, minutes slipping by on who's with who and did you hear.
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I need to live my life in the light of their deaths. I need to live.
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I still wanted to know why. As though somebody was going to answer that for me, as though any answer would be satisfying.
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My heart is fluid and soaring. There's no longer any space between heartbeats.
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There is nothing else for people to do. They do not think. They feel no passion, no hatred, no sadness they feel nothing but fear, and a desire to control. So they watch, and poke, and pry.
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