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His eyes are the color of honey. These are the eyes I remember from my dreams.

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
Dream
Remember
Honey
Dreams
Color
Eyes
Eye

More quotes by Lauren Oliver

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Life isn't life if you just float through it.
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Alex is dead, do you hear me? All of that-what we felt, what it meant- that's done now, okay? Buried. Blown away.
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The priests and the scientists are right about one thing: At our heart, at our base, we are no better than animals.
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Amazing how hope lives. Without air or water, with hardly anything at all to nurture it.
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No guest rooms.” I shake my head resolutely. “I want to be in a room room. A lived-in room.
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Nothing has ever been so painful or delicious as being so close to him and being unable to do anything about it: like eating ice cream so fast on a hot day you get a splitting headache.
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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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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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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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This is the strange way of the world, that people who simply want to love are instead forced to become warriors.
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Love. I love you. I’ll always love you, my love. You are the love of my life.
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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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The hours here are flat and round, disks of gray layered one on top of the other...they move slowly, at a grind, until it seems as though they are not moving at all. They are just pressing down.
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We wanted the freedom to love. We wanted the freedom to choose. Now we have to fight for it.
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Kent? I say, and my voice seems to have to rise from inside the fog, taking forever to get from my brain to my mouth. Yeah? Promise you'll stay here with me? I say. I promise, he whispers.
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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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That is the rule of the Wilds: You must be bigger and stronger and tougher. You must hurt or be hurt.
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A string of bright white buildinh, glistening like teeth over the slurping mouth of the ocean.
Lauren Oliver
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But...books are so much more. Some of them are webs you can feel your way along their threads, but just barely, into strange and dark corners. Some of them are balloons bobbing up through the sky: totally self-contained, and unreachable, but beautiful to watch. And some of them―the best ones―are doors.
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What glitters may not be gold and even wolves may smile and fools will be led by promises to their deaths.
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