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My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.

Aimee Bender

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Aimee Bender
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: June 28
Novelist
Writer
the United States of America
Murmured
Eyelids
Cave
Anytime
Caves
Private

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I admired that stride it was like he folded space in two with it.
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As a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.
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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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That's the thing with handmade items. They still have the person's mark on them, and when you hold them, you feel less alone. This is why everyone who eats a Whopper leaves a little more depressed than they were when they came in. Nobody cooked that burger.
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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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You can ruin anything if you focus at it.
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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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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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It is so often surprising, who rescues you at your lowest moments.
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The writing I tend to think of as 'good' is good because it's mysterious.
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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 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 give boring people something to discuss over corn.
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We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.
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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'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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I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.
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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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