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And how she looked at me like I could save her from everything bad in he world. This was my secret: she was the one who saved me

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
Secret
Everything
Like
World
Saved
Save
Looked

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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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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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You should only fall in love with people who will fall in love with you back.
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I said, I prefer the ocean when it's gray. Or not really gray. A pale, in-between color. It reminds me of waiting for something good to happen.
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But hope got in, no matter how hard and fast I tried to stomp it out. Like these tiny fire ants we used to get in Portland. No matter how fast you liked them, there were always more, a steady stream of them, resistant, ever-multiplying. Maybe, the hope said. Maybe.
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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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One of the strangest things about life is that it will chug on, blind and oblivious, even as your private world - your little carved-out sphere - is twisting and morphing, even breaking apart.
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The whole point of growing up is learning to stay on the laughing side.
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There is no before. There is only now, and what comes next.
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This was what being cured was like: like being in a fishbowl, circling always inside the same glass.
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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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All this time, I thought we were growing apart because I was leaving Lena behind. But really it was the reverse. She was learning to lie. She was learning to love.
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I’m sorry for everything.” Then he turns and pushes back into the woods, and he’s gone.
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I want to know. His words are a whisper, barely audible. I want to know with you.
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Like I've been sketched by an amateur artist: if you don't look too closely, it's all right, but start focusing and all the smudges and mistakes become really obvious.
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I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.
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Because if it weren’t for me, Lena and Alex would never have been caught at all. I told on them. I was jealous.
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Most people don't want to be saved. Besides, if you keep bailing everybody out, they'll never learn to paddle on their own.
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Everything in me feels fluttering and free, like I could take off from the ground at any second. Music, I think, he makes me feel like music.
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People could push and pull at you, and poke you, and probe as deep as they could go. They could even tear you apart, bit by bit. But at the heart and root and soul of you, something would remain untouched.
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