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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.

Anne Fortier

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Anne Fortier
Age: 53
Born: 1971
Born: November 10
Novelist
Writer
DK
Didn
Smiled
Truth
Hoping
Really
Kept
Would
Recognize
Like
Sorry
Asking
Wouldn
Wistfully
Tell
Romeo

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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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If you let go of me now,” I whispered, stretching against him, “it could be another six hundred years before you find me again. Are you willing to take that risk?
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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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Romeo was cute …” “Cute?” Alessandro rolled his eyes. “What kind of man is cute?” “… and an excellent dancer …” “Romeo had feet of lead! He said so himself!” “… but most importantly,” I concluded, “he had nice hands!
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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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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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Verona is a very beautiful city, but Siena just never ceases to fascinate me.
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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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.... death turns all men into great lovers. Would that they were equally ardent while the lady was still alive!
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But he is an Italian, was Umberto's sensible reply. He doesn't care if you break some law a little bit, as long as you wear beautiful shoes. Are you wearing beautiful shoes? Are you wearing the shoes I gave you?...principessa? I looked down at my flip-flops. I guess I'm toast.
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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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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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Great love, you believe, carries the seeds of great sorrow.
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Janice used to say that instinct was reason in a hurry I was not so sure about the reason part.
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I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, “at nine o’clock. Don’t open your door to anyone else.” “Not even my balcony door?” “Especially not your balcony door.
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In many ways, a degree in the history of ideas is the ideal training for an aspiring writer.
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There is lust and then there is love. They are related, but still very different things. To indulge in one requires little but honeyed speech and a change of clothes to obtain the other, by contrast, a man must give up his rib. In return, his woman will undo the sin of Eve, and bring him back into Paradise.
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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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