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I close my eyes. An image flashes—emerging from the van with Julian after our escape from New York City believing, in that moment, that we had escaped the worst, that life would begin again for us. Instead life has only grown harder.
Lauren Oliver
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Lauren Oliver
Age: 42
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
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Westchester County
New York
Moment
Begin
Emerging
Moments
City
Flash
Believe
Close
Believing
Would
Instead
Grown
Life
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Julian
Worst
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Vans
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The old Lena is dead.
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Things change after you die, though, I guess because dying is the loneliest thing you can do.
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Maybe this is the secret to talking to boys--maybe you just have to be angry all the time.
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Sarah: Not bad. You look almost human. Lena: Thanks. Sarah: I said almost. Lena: Well, then, almost thanks.
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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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But from the beginning, I knew that in a world where destiny was dead, I was destined, forever, to love him. Even though he didn't - though he couldn't - ever love me back.
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The whole point of growing up is learning to stay on the laughing side.
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We can never understand. We can only try, fumbling our way through the tunneled places, reaching for light.
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I think of Grace and feel a sharp pain in my chest.
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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.
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The first time I saw you, at the Governor, I handn't been to watch the birds at the border in years. But that's what you reminded me of. You were jumping up, and you were yelling something, and your hair was coming loose from your ponytail, and you were so fast... He shakes his head. Just a flash, and then you were gone, Exactly like a bird.
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One of the strangest things about life is that it will chug on, blind and oblivious, even as your private world - your little carved-out sphere - is twisting and morphing, even breaking apart.
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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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Waste today, want tomorrow.
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I'll find you, he says, watching me with the eyes I remember. I won't let you go again
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Lies are just stories, and stories are all that matter. We all tell stories. Some are more truthful than others, maybe, but in the end the only thing that counts is what you can make people believe.
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I’ve never really had a party before.” “Why did you have one now?” I say, just to keep him talking. He gives a half laugh. “I thought if I had a party, you would come.
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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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This was what being cured was like: like being in a fishbowl, circling always inside the same glass.
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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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