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I thought of my mother as Queen Christina, cool and sad, eyes trained on some distant horizon. That was where she belonged, in furs and palaces of rare treasures, fireplaces large enough to roast a reindeer, ships of Swedish maple.
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
Eye
Queens
Swedish
Mother
Horizon
Fur
Thought
Rare
Belonged
Furs
Enough
Ships
Treasures
Reindeer
Treasure
Palaces
Fireplaces
Cool
Distant
Christina
Large
Queen
Roast
Eyes
Trained
Maple
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When I read, I want to be fully transported to another place. I want to feel things, smell things.
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Who was I, really? I was the sole occupant of my mother's totalitarian state, my own personal history rewritten to fit the story she was telling that day. There were so many missing pieces. I was starting to find some of them, working my way upriver, collecting a secret cache of broken memories in a shoebox.
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Pick a better verb. Most people use twenty verbs to describe everything from a run in their stocking to the explosion of an A-bomb.
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And if there is no god? You act as if there is, and it's the same thing.
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Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.
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Her fingers moved among barnacles and mussels, blue-black, sharp-edged. Neon red starfish were limp Dalis on the rocks, surrounded by bouquets of stinging anemones and purple bursts of spiny sea urchins.
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Panic was the worst thing. When you panicked, you couldn't see possibilities. Then came despair.
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We read so that we can be moved by a new way of looking at things.
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I could hear the icy winds of Sweden, but he didn't seem to feel the chill.
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How vast was a human being's capacity for suffering. The only thing you could do was stand in awe of it. It wasn't a question of survival at all. It was the fullness of it, how much could you hold, how much could you care.
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No matter how unappealing, each of them imagines he is somehow worthy.
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What happened to a dream without a dreamer?
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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
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I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, men who made you love them then changed their minds.
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To make films, you have to have boundless energy you have to work and play with others really, really well, and I'm really a more contemplative kind of person. I like to sit at home and think, a lot.
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Women always put men first. That's how everything got so screwed up.
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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 strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental.
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Remember...we don't see objects, we see light. [...] Light can do anything water can do--flow, wash, trickle. It can do anything an artist can do--paint, burnish, carve. Candlelight falls, licks a face. There is always light in a room.
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