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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.

Aimee Bender

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Aimee Bender
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: June 28
Novelist
Writer
the United States of America
Important
Birthday
Think
Gift
Thinking
Somebody
Like
Alive
Lap
Wonderful
Beautifully
Fear
Wrapped
Feel
Bomb
Feels
Bombs

More quotes by Aimee Bender

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I was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.
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The writing I tend to think of as 'good' is good because it's mysterious.
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I didn’t mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.
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It is so often surprising, who rescues you at your lowest moments.
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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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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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I was right at the edge of their circle, like the tail of a Q...
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It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things.
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I like birthday cake. It's so symbolic. It's a tempting symbol to load with something more complicated than just 'Happy birthday!' because it's this emblem of childhood and a happy day.
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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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I don't think so, I don't agree. The most unbearable thing I think by far, she said, is hope.
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But the sky is interesting, it changes all the time.
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When the light at Vernon turned green, we stepped into the street and George grabbed my hand and the ghosts of our younger selves crossed with us.
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I felt the crumpled paper that had taken the place of my lungs expand as if released from a fist.
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I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.
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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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Light is good company, when alone I took my comfort where I found it, and the warmest yellow bulb in the living-room lamp had become a kind of radiant babysitter all its own.
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The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
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But what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think? Before she knew it was candles, did she think she'd done it herself? With the amazing turns of her hips, and the warmth of the music inside her, did she believe, for even one glorious second, that her passion had arrived?
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My lover is experiencing reverse evolution.
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