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Finishing books - and leaving the world you've created - is always a kind of emotionally wrenching experience. I usually cry.

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
Always
Leaving
World
Cry
Created
Usually
Books
Experience
Wrenching
Book
Finishing
Kind
Emotionally

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And you should hear the music. Incredible, amazing music, like nothing you've ever heard, music that almost takes your head off, you know? That makes you want to scream and jump up and down and break stuff and cry.
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Be honest: Are you surprised that I didn't realize sooner? Are you surprised that it took me so long to even /think/ the word -- death? Dying? Dead? Do you think I was being stupid? Naive? Try not to judge. Remember that we're the same, you and me. I thought I would live forever too.
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Time jumps. It leaps. It pours away like water through fingers.
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people do terrible things, sometimes, for the best reasons.
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That is what Alex is now: a shadow-boy
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No wonder the regulators decided on segregation of boys and girls: Otherwise, it would have been a nightmare, this feeling angry and self-conscious and confused and annoyed all the time.
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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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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’m sorry for everything.” Then he turns and pushes back into the woods, and he’s gone.
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It was a bird. A bird struggling through stickiness: a bird coated in paint, floundering in its nest, splashing color everywhere. Red. Red. Red. Dozens of them: black feathers coated thickly with crimson-colored paint, fluttering among the branches. Red means run.
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Everyone just wasting time because they have so much of it to waste, minutes slipping by on who's with who and did you hear.
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That's my favorite thing about him. I like to lie next to him when it's late, dark, and so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat. It's times like that when I'm sure that I'm in love.
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That’s what made it so frightening to the lawmakers: Love obeys no laws other than its own.
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Then I think of the dark, and the lights, and the roaring, and Juliet, and before I can think of anything else, I fight the final few steps to the door and step out into the cold, where the rain is still coming down like shards of moonlight, or like steel.
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He was still in love with you, anyway.
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You see, we didn't know.
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Live free or die. Four words. Thirteen letters. Ridges, bumps, swirls under my fingertips. Another story. We cling tightly to it, and our belief turns it to truth.
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I'm used to a feeling of doubleness, of thinking one thing and having to do another, a constant tug-of-war.
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My heart is fluid and soaring. There's no longer any space between heartbeats.
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Maybe this is the secret to talking to boys--maybe you just have to be angry all the time.
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