Quote

Always learn poems by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they'll make your soul impervious to the world's soft decay.

Janet Fitch

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Janet Fitch
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: November 9
Author
Journalist
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
LA
California
Janet Elizabeth Fitch
Like
Poetry
Fluoride
World
Water
Oleanders
Learn
Impervious
Become
Marrow
Soul
Decay
Heart
Poems
Make
Soft
Always
Bones

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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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How easy I was. Like a limpet I attached myself to anything, anyone who showed me the least attention.
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I wish my life could be like that, knotted up so that even if something broke, the whole thing wouldn't come apart.
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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
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If sinners where so unhappy, why would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why. Without my wounds, who was I?
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...The men eyed her with the automatic mix of curiosity, lust, and aesthetic judgment they always gave young women, subject to object, the way you'd stare at an animal. She pretended not to notice. To remind them she was a person was too much effort. Objects bore no guilt.
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I felt like time was a great sea, and I was floating on the back of a turtle, and no sails broke the horizon.
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I wandered through the stacks, running my hands along the spines of the books on the shelves, they reminded me of cultured or opinionated guests at a wonderful party, whispering to each other.
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We recived our colouring from the Norsemen,hairy savages who hacked their gods to pieces and hung the flesh from trees.We are the ones who sacked Rome.Fear only feeble old age and death in bed.Don't forget who you are.
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It's all I ever really wanted, that revelation. The possibility of fixed stars.
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We have no home, she told me. I am your home.
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I took the volume to a table, opened its soft, ivory pages... and fell into it as into a pool during dry season.
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You must find a boy your own age. Someone mild and beautiful to be your lover. Someone who will tremble for your touch, offer you a marguerite by its long stem with his eyes lowered. Someone whose fingers are a poem.
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But I knew one more thing. That people w ho denied who they were or where they had been were in the greatest danger.
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We don't have a unitary society anymore, you know it's very fragmented. I look up and down my block in Silverlake and there is a different universe in every house.
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My hatred gives me strength.
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When I start writing, my unconscious, my conflicts, my thoughts all start to come up. So for me, writing is an exploration. I never know how my stories will end.
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How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?
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Find someone who will tremble for your touch, someone whose fingers are a poem.
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