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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.
Aimee Bender
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Aimee Bender
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: June 28
Novelist
Writer
the United States of America
Street
Grabbed
Turned
Stepped
Green
Crossed
Streets
Ghosts
Hand
Selves
Hands
George
Light
Younger
Self
Ghost
Vernon
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I give boring people something to discuss over corn.
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Language is the ticket to plot and character, after all, because both are built out of language.
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To see someone you love, in a bad setting, is one of the great barometers of gratitude.
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The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
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It is all about numbers. It is all about sequence. It's the mathematical logic of being alive. If everything kept to its normal progression, we would live with the sadness-cry and then walk-but what really breaks us cleanest are the losses that happen out of order.
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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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I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.
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I am the drying meadow you the unspoken apology he is the fluctuating distance between mother and son she is the first gesture that creates a quiet that is full enough to make the baby sleep. My genes, my love, are rubber bands and rope make yourself a structure you can live inside. Amen.
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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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I felt the crumpled paper that had taken the place of my lungs expand as if released from a fist.
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When language is treated beautifully and interestingly, it can feel good for the body: It's nourishing it's rejuvenating.
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…kissing George was a little like rolling in caramel after spending years surviving off rice sticks.
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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 was right at the edge of their circle, like the tail of a Q...
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Many kids, it seemed, would find out that their parents were flawed, messed-up people later in life, and I didn't appreciate getting to know it all so strong and early.
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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 want to be violated by insight.
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I was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.
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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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The writing I tend to think of as 'good' is good because it's mysterious.
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