Quote

Direction, like time, is a general thing, the deprived of boundaries and borders. It is an endless process interception and reinterception, doubling back and adjusting.

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
General
Interceptions
Process
Doubling
Back
Adjusting
Thing
Deprived
Time
Borders
Like
Boundaries
Endless
Direction

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Things would get difficult again. But that was okay too. The bravery was in moving forward, no matter what.
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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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Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.
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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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The kidnapping, the kiss. I brought him here, after all. I rescue him an pulled him into this new life, a life of freedom and feeling.
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The mark of the procedure. A real one. Lu is cured.
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It strikes me how strange people are. You can see them every day - you can think you know them - and then you fшnd out you hardly know them at all.
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He's stuck with me and I'm stuck with him. We're stuck. That's what growing up is all about, I guess.
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Let me tell you something about dying: it's not as bad as they says. it's the coming-back-to-life part that hurts.
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I love you. They can't take it away.
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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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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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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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This is what hatred is. It will feed you and at the same time turn you to rot.
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Mice? Fine. Flying mice? Not so fine.
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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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I start to back away before I do something wildly inappropriate, like jump on top of him.
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Nobody ever said life was fair.
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Fridays are the hardest in some ways: you’re so close to freedom.
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That's the beauty of the cure. No one mentions those lost, hot days in the field, when Thomas kissed Rachel's tears away and invented worlds just so he could promise them to her, when she tore the skin off her own arm at the thought of living without him.
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