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People are like ants: Just a few of them give all the orders. And most of them spend their lives getting squashed.
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
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Ants
People
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Squashed
More quotes by Lauren Oliver
His eyes are the color of honey. These are the eyes I remember from my dreams.
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Love obeys no laws other than its own.
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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 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.
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He looked at me like I was beautiful.
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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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I don't know where to go. I don't know what comes now. Don't worry, Will said. We'll figure something out. Liesl managed to smile at him. She liked that word: *we*. It sounded warm and open, like a hug.
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If singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing.
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And you can't love, not fully, unless you are loved in return.
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I can admit, now, that I must have loved Lena. Not in an Unnatural way, but my feelings for her must have been a kind of sickness. How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust--and also to make you feel so whole?
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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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Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging up your back and runing its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do-the only thing-is run.
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you have to understand. i wasn't just thinking of me. i was thinking of her, too.
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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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Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.
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Less than a month ago all of August still stretched before us - long and golden and reassuring, like an endless period of delicious sleep.
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Love, the deadliest of all things: It kills you both when you have it and when you don't. But that isn't it, exactly. The condemner and the condemned. The executioner the blade the last-minute reprieve the gasping breath and the rolling sky above you and the thank you, thank you, thank you God. Love: It will kill you and save you, both.
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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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For the first time in a long time, I actually look at her. I've always thought Lena was pretty, but now it occurs to me that at some point - last summer? last year? - she became beautiful.
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But how could anyone who's ever seen a summer - big explosion of green and skies lit up electric with splashy sunsets, a riot of flowers and wind that smells like honey - pick the snow?
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