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Large meadows are lovely for picnics and romping, but they are for the lighter feelings. Meadows do not make me want to write.

Aimee Bender

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Aimee Bender
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: June 28
Novelist
Writer
the United States of America
Meadows
Lovely
Large
Write
Feelings
Writing
Picnics
Make
Lighters
Lighter

More quotes by Aimee Bender

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You're the perfect girl', he said, rubbing his chin. 'You expect nothing.
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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 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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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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When language is treated beautifully and interestingly, it can feel good for the body: It's nourishing it's rejuvenating.
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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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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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My lover is experiencing reverse evolution.
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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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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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It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things.
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But the sky is interesting, it changes all the time.
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As a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.
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I want to be violated by insight.
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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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My genes, my love, are rubber bands and rope make yourself a structure you can live inside. Amen. — Aimee Bender (Willful Creatures: Stories)
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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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Mom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.
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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.
Aimee Bender