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…kissing George was a little like rolling in caramel after spending years surviving off rice sticks.

Aimee Bender

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Aimee Bender
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: June 28
Novelist
Writer
the United States of America
Spending
Littles
Caramel
Little
Rice
Years
Surviving
Like
Rolling
George
Sticks
Kissing

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I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.
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The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
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But the sky is interesting, it changes all the time.
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I knew if I ate anything of hers again, it would lkely tell me the same message: help me, I am not happy, help me -- like a message in a bottle sent in each meal to the eater, and I got it. I got the message.
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It was like we were exchanging codes, on how to be a father and a daughter, like we'd read about it in a manual, translated from another language, and were doing our best with what we could understand.
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My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.
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...a Dorito asks nothing of you, which is its great gift. It only asks that you are not there.
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As a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.
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While she cut the mushrooms, she cried more than she had at the grave, the most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.
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I peeled the skin off a grape in slippery little triangles, and I understood then that I would be undressing every item of food I could because my clothes would be staying on.
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I could feel the tears beginning to collect in my throat again, but I pushed them apart, away from each other. Tears are only a threat in groups.
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There's a gift in your lap and it's beautifully wrapped and it's not your birthday. You feel wonderful, you feel like somebody knows you're alive, you feel fear because it could be a bomb, because you think you're that important.
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I'm obsessed with adolescence. I love to write about people in their 20s. It's such a fraught and exciting and kind of horrible time.
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Mom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.
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With my hand in his, I looked at all the apartment buildings with rushes of love, peering in the wide streetside windows that revealed living rooms painted in dark burgandies and matte reds.
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We're all getting too smart. Our brains are just getting bigger and bigger, and the world dries up and dies when there's too much thought and not enough heart.
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It seems the best work I do is when I am really allowing the unconscious to rule the page and then later I can go back and hack around and make sense of things.
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Mom loved my brother more. Not that she didn't love me - I felt the wash of her love every day, pouring over me, but it was a different kind, siphoned from a different, and tamer, body of water. I was her darling daughter Joseph was her it.
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I want to be violated by insight.
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