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He was still in love with you, anyway.

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
Anyway
Stills
Still
Love

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I get that rush that comes when you know you're doing something wrong and are getting away with it, like stealing from the school cafeteria of getting tipsy at a family holiday without anyone knowing it.
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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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Of all the miracles Po had seen in the time and space of its death, Po thought this--the absorption of another, the carrying of it--was the most bewildering and remarkable of all. Whenever Bundle separated again, Po was left with an ache of sadness that reminded the ghost of the body it had left behind.
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If you take, we will take back. Steal from us, and we will rob you blind. When you squeeze, we will hit. This is the way the world is made now.
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I've been so used to thinking of what the borders are keeping out that I haven't considered that they're also penning us in.
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Droplets, droplets: we are all identical drips and drops of people, hovering, waiting to be tipped, waiting for someone to show us the way, to pour us down a path.
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Music, I think, he makes me feel like music
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Why couldn't you let me have it? Why did you have to take it? Why did you always take everything?
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Hate isn’t the most dangerous thing, he’d said. Indifference is.
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I don't love you, Lena. Do you hear me? I never love you.
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This is not the person I wanted to become: Hatred has carved a permanent place inside me, a hollow where things are so easily lost.
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Live free or die. Four words. Thirteen letters. Ridges, bumps, swirls under my fingertips. Another story. We cling tightly to it, and our belief turns it to truth.
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But maybe happiness isn't in the choosing. Maybe it's in the fiction, in the pretending: that wherever we have ended up is where we intended to be all along.
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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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That’s what made it so frightening to the lawmakers: Love obeys no laws other than its own.
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There is no before. There is only now, and what comes next.
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In one of the tents, Julian is sleeping. And in another: Alex
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That's what Zombieland is: frozen, calm, quiet.
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An eye for an eye. And the whole world goes blind, Coral puts in quietly.
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