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Amazing how hope lives. Without air or water, with hardly anything at all to nurture it.

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
Without
Nurture
Hardly
Amazing
Air
Water
Hope
Lives
Anything

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The whole point of growing up is learning to stay on the laughing side.
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The mark of the procedure. A real one. Lu is cured.
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I know the past will drag you backward and down, have you snatching at whispers of wind and the gibberish of trees rubbing together, trying to decipher some code, trying to piece together what was broken. It's hopeless. The past is nothing but a weight. It will build inside you like a stone.
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In one of the tents, Julian is sleeping. And in another: Alex
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It's surprisingly nice out here, peaceful and pretty-strange to be standing in the middle of a little garden while enclosed by the massive stone walls of the prison, like being at the exact center of a hurricane, and finding peace and silence in the middle of so much shrieking damage.
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I will make a pact with you: I will do it if you will do it, always and forever. Take down the walls.
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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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That was what her parents did not understand—and had never understood—about stories. Liza told herself storied as though she was weaving and knotting an endless rope. Then, no matter how dark or terrible the pit she found herself in, she could pull herself out, inch by inch and hand over hand, on the long rope of stories.
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I wonder whether she was sorry for leaving us behind.
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He is my world and my world is him and without him there is no world.
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You see, we didn't know.
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I still wanted to know why. As though somebody was going to answer that for me, as though any answer would be satisfying.
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It's like a razor blade edging its way through my organs, shredding me, all I can think is: It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.
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i suppose that's the secret, if you're ever wishing for things to back the way they were. You just have to look up.
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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 the strange way of the world, that people who simply want to love are instead forced to become warriors.
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It's a miracle I was able to get out of the house today. It's a miracle I'm even wearing pants, a double miracle I remembered to wear shoes.
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Something must die so that others can live.
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And a face above mine, white and beautiful, eyes as large as the moon. You saved me. A hand on my cheek, cool and dry. Why did you save me? Words welling up on a tide: No, the opposite. Eyes the colour of a dawn sky, a crown of blond hair, so bright and white and blinding I could swear it was a halo.
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It was as though the darkness was a sheet of raw cookie dough and someone had just taken a cookie cutter and made a child-sized shape out of it.
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