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That is what Alex is now: a shadow-boy

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
Alex
Shadow
Boys

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I’m sorry for everything.” Then he turns and pushes back into the woods, and he’s gone.
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I'm not scared, if that's what you're wondering. The moment of death is full of sound and warmth and light shooting away, arcing up and up and up, and if singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing... The rest you have to find out for yourself.
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people do terrible things, sometimes, for the best reasons.
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Love: a single word, a wispy thing, a word no bigger or longer than an edge.
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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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This is what happens when you try to help people. You get screwed.
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It's amazing how close I have been, all this time, to my old life. And yet the distance that divides me from it is vast.
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There are some losses we never get over.
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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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Huamns, uregulated, are cruel and capricious violet and selfish miserable and quarrelsome. It is only after their instincts and basic emotions have been controlled that they can be happy, generous, and good.
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There is no before. There is only now, and what comes next.
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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 are more of us than you think.
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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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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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Once Mo had closed the gates, he returned to his little stone hut, and his half-eaten sandwich of butter and canned sardines, and his mug of thick hot chocolate, which every night he poured carefully into a thermos labeled COFFEE.
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Waste today, want tomorrow.
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And then, just at that moment, when I'm no longer sure if I'm dreaming or awake or walking some valley in between where everything you wish for comes true, I feel the flutter of his lips on mine.
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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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Raven jerks and stiffens. For a second, I think she is only surprised: Her mouth goes round, her eyes wide. Then she begins teetering backward, and I know that she is dead. Falling, falling, falling . . .
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