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Girls were born knowing how destructive the truth could be. They learned to hold it in, tamp it down, like gunpowder in an old fashioned gun. Then it exploded in your face on a November day in the rain.
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
Knowing
November
Face
Fashioned
Faces
Destructive
Born
Gun
Girl
Rain
Truth
Girls
Like
Hold
Gunpowder
Learned
Exploded
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Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.
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She should think about her own soul, what she was going to do with this funky tattered pond dank item. Dark and stained, a ruined thing.
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A cliche is like a coin that has been handled too much. Once language has been overly handled, it no longer leaves a clear imprint.
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Take my advice. Stay away from all broken people.
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Dawn tinted the darkness like water ink.
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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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A cliche is everything you've ever heard of.
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We strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental.
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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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purification in fire. public cremation
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I almost said, you're not broken, you're just going through something. But i couldn't. She knew. There was something terribly wrong with her, all the way inside. She was like a big diamond with a dead spot in the middle. I was supposed to breathe life into that dead spot, but it hadn't worked.
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I wondered where he was now whether I would ever hear him again. Whether someone would love him, someday show him what beauty mean't.
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Now I wish she'd never broken any of her rules. I understood why she held to them so hard. Once you broke the first one, they all broke, one by one, like firecrackers exploding in your face in a parking lot on the Fourth of July.
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Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.
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Being in the library is so addictive for me that I really have to exercise self-control so I can get some writing done at home.
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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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That kind of tenderness couldn't be permitted to last. You only got a taste, enough to know what perfection meant, and then you paid for it the rest of your life. Like the guy chained to a rock, who stole fire. The gods made an eagle eat his liver for all eternity. You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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Isn't it funny.I'm enjoying my hatred so much more than i ever enjoyed love. Love is temperamental. Tiring. It makes demands. Love uses you, changes its mind. But hatred, now, that's something you can use. Sculpt. Wield. It's hard, or soft, however you need it. Love humiliates you, but Hatred cradles you.
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Wasn't that the way it always was? You didn't know, you couldn't tell, you just let it happen... Perhaps they didn't know themselves. Sometimes the line was very fine.
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What is real is always worth it.
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