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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: 41
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Westchester County
New York
Name
Names
Secret
Else
Belongs

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I know some of you are Thinking maybe I deserved it. But before you start pointing Fringers, let me ask you Is what I did really so bad? So bad I deserved to die? So bad I deserved to die like that? Is what I did really much worse Then what anybody else does? Is it really so much worse Than what you do?
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You can try to pin me down with a hundred thousand arms, but I will find a way to resist
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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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That's all I want. Just you and me. Always.
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The mark of the procedure. A real one. Lu is cured.
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Things change after you die, though, I guess because dying is the loneliest thing you can do.
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This is what I want. This is the only thing I've ever wanted. Everything else—every single second of every single day that has come before this very moment, this kiss—has meant nothing.
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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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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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It's the way he says my name: like music.
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Mice? Fine. Flying mice? Not so fine.
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Fred is officially the mayor of Portland now.
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Each step is more difficult than the last the heaviness fills me and turns my limbs to stone. You must hurt or be hurt.
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I didn't realize then what a privilege that was: to be bored with your best friend to have time to waste.
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Nobody ever said life was fair.
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Raven jerks and stiffens. For a second, I think she is only surprised: Her mouth goes round, her eyes wide. Then she begins teetering backward, and I know that she is dead. Falling, falling, falling . . .
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Anger is useful only to a certain point. After that, it becomes rage, and rage will make you careless.
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For a second I feel a rush of sadness: for the horizons that vanish behind us, for the people we leave behind, the tiny-doll selves that get stored away and ultimately buried.
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Amazing how hope lives. Without air or water, with hardly anything at all to nurture it.
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