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This was what true fear was--that you could never know other people, not completely. That you were always just guessing blind.

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
People
Guessing
Blind
Completely
Fear
True
Always
Never

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Lindsay calls them the Pugs: pretty from far away, ugly up close.
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Everywhere he touches is fire. My whole body is burning up, the two of us becoming twin points of the same bright white flame.
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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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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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It's so strange how life works: You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it's taking forever to come. Then it happens and it's over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed.
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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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Rainstorms are incredible: falling shards of glass, the air full of diamonds.
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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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Kent? I say, and my voice seems to have to rise from inside the fog, taking forever to get from my brain to my mouth. Yeah? Promise you'll stay here with me? I say. I promise, he whispers.
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This is the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you.
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Huamns, uregulated, are cruel and capricious violet and selfish miserable and quarrelsome. It is only after their instincts and basic emotions have been controlled that they can be happy, generous, and good.
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It's Connecticut: being like the people around you is the whole point.
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I’ve always hated being looked at.
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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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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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That is what Alex is now: a shadow-boy
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The hours here are flat and round, disks of gray layered one on top of the other...they move slowly, at a grind, until it seems as though they are not moving at all. They are just pressing down.
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He looked at me like I was beautiful.
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They’d already taken her from me once. I didn’t want to lose her again.
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It's too late. I've seen things...I've lost things you can't understand.
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