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I think of Grace and feel a sharp pain in my chest.

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
Thinking
Chest
Chests
Sharp
Grace
Pain
Feel
Feels
Think

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This is pretty much the answer to every problem you encounter in suburbia: plant a tree, and hope you don't see anyone's privates.
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I cry for everything I abandoned and because I, too, have been left behind -- by Alex, by my mom, by time that has cut through our worlds and separated us.
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anything, anything is possible, if you can just see the sky.
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The tunnels may be long, and twisted, and dark but you are supposed to go through them.
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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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And you should hear the music. Incredible, amazing music, like nothing you've ever heard, music that almost takes your head off, you know? That makes you want to scream and jump up and down and break stuff and cry.
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That's the thing about faith. It works.
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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)
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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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My parents were pretty liberal, but they were still parents. I definitely had my teenage rebellion.
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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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Now I'd rather be infected with love for the tiniest sliver of a second than live a hundred years smothered by a lie.
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Stupid how the mind will try to distract itself.
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I’ve always hated being looked at.
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...and once at Hana's house, when we stole some blackberry liqueur from her parents' liquor cabinet and drank until the ceiling started spinning overhead. Hana was laughing and giggling, but I didn't like it, didn't like the sweet sick taste in my mouth or the way my thoughts seemed to break apart like a mist in the sun.
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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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I'm so tired after dinner I fall asleep with my clothes on, almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, and so I forget to ask God, in my prayers, to keep me from waking up.
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Live free or die.
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