Quotessence
Home / Quotes / Quote by Lauren Oliver

Quote by Lauren Oliver

“It [death] isn't an infection, she said. She might be right. Then again, we've nested in the walls like bacteria. We've taken over the house, its insulation and its plumbing —we've made it our own. Or maybe it's life that it's the infection: a feverish dream, a hallucination of feelings. Death is purification, a cleansing, a cure.”

Quote by Lauren Oliver

Book:Rooms

Work

Rooms

This book delves into the complexities of human relationships and personal growth as it follows the lives of various individuals living in the same building. The narrative examines how their interactions and personal struggles intertwine, offering a poignant look at the dynamics of community and the search for belonging. more

Author

Lauren Oliver
Lauren Oliver

Lauren Oliver, born in 1982, is an accomplished American author known for her profound emotional depth and imaginative storytelling. Her works have garnered widespread acclaim and have resonated with readers around the world. more

You May Also Like

“I never react to events in the outside world; I always react to the sensations in my own body. (...) Even when we think we react to what another person has done, to President Trump's latest tweet, or to a distant childhood memory, the truth is we always react to our immediate bodily sensations. If we are outraged that somebody insulted our nation or our god, what makes the insult unbearable is the burning sensations in the pit of our stomach and the band of pain that grips our heart. Our nation feels nothing, but our body really hurts.”

“Once as a child, Phoebe had been caught outside in a summer storm, and had seen a butterfly knocked from the air by raindrops. It had fluttered and fallen to the ground, bombarded from every direction. The only choice had been to fold its wings, take shelter and wait. This man was the storm and the shelter, pulling her into a deep, encompassing darkness where there was too much to feel- hot soft firm sweet hungry rough silken tugging. She strained helplessly in his arms, although she didn't know whether she was trying to escape or press closer. She had craved this, the hardness and heat of his body against hers, the sensation familiar and yet not at all familiar. She had feared this, a man with a will and power that matched her own, a man who would desire and possess every last part of her without mercy.”

“I make landscapes out of what I feel. I make holidays of my sensations. I can easily understand women who embroider out of sorrow or who crochet because life exists. My elderly aunt would play solitaire throughout the endless evening. These confessions of what I feel are my solitaire. I don't interpret them like those who read cards to tell the future. I don't probe them, because in solitaire the cards don't have any special significance. I unwind myself like a multicoloured skein, or I make string figures of myself, like those woven on spread fingers and passed from child to child. I only take care that my thumb not miss its loop. Then I turn over my hand and the figure changes. And I start over.”

“Vane watched her reaction from under heavy lids, watched flaring passion light her eyes. Sparks of pure gold flashed in the hazel depths as he gently kneaded, then sent his fingers gliding over her silken skin. He knew he should kiss her, distract her, from what came next- but the compulsion to witness, to know her reaction as she learned what he would do, as he filled his senses with her, waxed strong.”