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His secret name, which belongs to me, and to him, and to no one else.

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
Else
Belongs
Name
Names
Secret

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They’d already taken her from me once. I didn’t want to lose her again.
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Hope keeps you alive.
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This is pretty much the answer to every problem you encounter in suburbia: plant a tree, and hope you don't see anyone's privates.
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An eye for an eye. And the whole world goes blind, Coral puts in quietly.
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People need other people to feel things for them, she said. It gets lonely to feel things all by yourself.
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As we're standing there I realize we're almost exactly the same height. We must look like the dark and light side of an Oreo cookie, and I think how just as easily it could have been the other way around. She could be blocking my path I could be trying to slip around her into the dark.
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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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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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I'm so tired after dinner I fall asleep with my clothes on, almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, and so I forget to ask God, in my prayers, to keep me from waking up.
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They didn’t get me, I should have said. They saved me.
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Someday she will be saved, and the past and all its pain will be rendered as smoothly palatable as the food we spoon to our babies.
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Promise me we'll stay together, okay? His eyes are once again the clear blue of a perfectly transparent pool. They are eyes to swim in, to float in, forever. You and me. I promise. I say. behind us the door creaks open, and I turn around, expecting Raven, just as a voice cuts through the air: Don't believe her.
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And you can't love, not fully, unless you are loved in return.
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I think of Grace and feel a sharp pain in my chest.
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I wonder if this is how people always get close: They heal each other's wounds they repair the broken skin.
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If you cross a line and nothing happens, the line loses meaning.
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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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My first kiss. A new kind of kiss, like the new kind of music still playing, softly, in the distance - wild and arrhythmic, desperate. Passionate.
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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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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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