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By the time we left college, I had become my own image: a dandelion in the flower bed of society. Kinda cute, but still a weed.

Anne Fortier

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Anne Fortier
Age: 53
Born: 1971
Born: November 10
Novelist
Writer
DK
Society
Dandelions
Left
Kinda
Become
Weed
Stills
Cute
Still
Bed
Time
Image
Flower
College
Dandelion

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Verona is a very beautiful city, but Siena just never ceases to fascinate me.
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While at Oxford in 1999, I met Jonathan Fortier, who is a Montreal-born Canadian. Despite the challenges of a transatlantic relationship, we remained keen on each other and eventually married in 2002.
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You owe me nothing, but I want everything.
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After the dress rehearsal that afternoon, someone had misplaced the vial of poison, and for lack of better, Romeo would have to commit suicide by eating Tic Tacs.
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A novel is, hopefully, the starting point of a conversation, one in which the author engages readers and asks that they see things from a different point of view than they might otherwise.
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Perhaps. But the firstborn of hope is tragedy.
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I think Shakespeare is everybody's treasure.
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When the old men fight, the young people die.
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You were right and I was wrong. When life hurts more than death, it is not worth living.
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...had always taken for granted that the whole world was in a state of constantly fluctuating madness, and that a neurosis was not an illness, but a fact of life, like pimples.
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I wish I had the power to flip my reality upside down like an hourglass, and that life wasn't a finite affair, but rather a perpetually recurring passage through a hole in time.
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Peppo! I yelled, pulling at my cousin's suspenders. I really don't want to be arrested, okay? Don't worry! Peppo turned a corner and accelerated as he spoke. I go too fast for police!
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She had died peacefully, in her sleep, after an evening of listening to all of her favorite Fred Astaire songs, one crackling record after another. Once the last chord of the last piece had died out, she had stood up and opened the French doors to the garden outside, perhaps waiting to breathe in the honeysuckle one more time.
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I absolutely believe the past had its share of warrior women who fought like men. Whether some of these were the actual Amazons from Greek myth is another matter.
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Who is more amateurish, more vulnerable---those who rely on machines that need to be plugged in, or logged on, or in some other way connected in order to be more than a useless slab of plastic ... or those who have learned to master life without?
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We are all cups, and our destiny is poured according to measures we cannot understand, cannot influence.
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I am sorry I didn’t tell you the truth before. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. You kept asking about Romeo and what he was really like. I was hoping that”—he smiled wistfully—“you would recognize me.
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Everything we say is a story. But nothing we say is just a story.
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And whether or not we had now paid our dues, he was my blessing, and I was his.
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I did not know my soul until I saw it's reflection in your eyes.
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