Quotes: Lauren Oliver

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It's not my fault I can't be like you, okay? I don't get up in the morning thinking the world is one big, shiny, happy place, okay? That's just not how I work. I don't think I can be fixed.

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I told you," he whispers back. I can feel his breath just tickling the space behind my ear, making my hair prick up on my neck. "I like you."
"You don't know me," I say quickly.
"I want to, though.

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She knew that this day, this feeling, couldn't last forever. Everything passed; that was partly why it was so beautiful. Things would get difficult again. But that was okay too.

The bravery was in moving forward, no matter what.

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This is what happens when you try to help people. You get screwed.

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A good friend keeps your secrets for you. A best friend helps you keep your own secrets.

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For a second, I feel a sense of overwhelming grief: for how things change, for the fact that we can never go back. I'm not certain of anything anymore. I don't know what will happen--

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Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging up your back and runing its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do-the only thing-is run.

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But how could anyone who's ever seen a summer- big recordings of green and skies lit up electric with splashy sunsets, a riot of flowers and wind that smells like concert- pick the snow?

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Are you sure you can't dematerialize? Not even a little?"
"I'm sure.

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Grief is like sinking, like being buried. I am in water the tawny color of kicked-up dirt. Every breath is full of choking. There is nothing to hold on to, no sides, no way to claw myself up. There is nothing to do but let go.

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I used to think that's what love was: knowing someone so well he was like a part of you.

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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.

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They say that just before you die your whole life flashes before your eyes, but that's not how it happened for me.

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The idea—the fact of it, the fact that he even noticed and thought about me for more than one second—is huge and overwhelming, makes my legs go tingly and my hands feel numb.

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It's the rule of the wilds. You must be bigger, and stronger, and tougher.
A coldness radiates through me, a solid wall that is growing, piece by piece, in my chest. He doesn't love me.

He never loved me.
It was all a lie.

"The old Lena is dead." I say, and then push past him. 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 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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And now I realize Lindsay's not fearless. She's terrified. She's terrified that people will find out she's faking, bullshitting her way through life, pretending to have everything together when really she's just floundering like the rest of us. Lindsay, who will bite at you if you even look in her direction the wrong way, like on of those tiny attack dogs that are always barking and snapping in the air before they're jerked backward on the chains that keep them in one place.

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All of it was hers, hers and Nat's, and all those years were nestled inside them like one of those Russian dolls, holding dozens of tiny selves inside it.

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...into hate, into refusal, against hope and without fear

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At least when I'm sleeping I can dream myself back to Alex, can dream myself into a different world.