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Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.

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
Jewels
Lakes
Hatred
Glittered
Cold
Sapphire
Sapphires
Irresistibly
Norway
Jewel

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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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she’s not as pretty as you,” I said “But she’s a simpler girl,” my mother whispered.
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Let me tell you a few things about regret...There is no end to it. You cannot find the beginning of the chain that brought us from there to here. Should you regret the whole chain, and the air in between, or each link separately as if you could uncouple them? Do you regret the beginning which ended so badly, or just the ending itself?
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They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.
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here, here is my dark world. you carry it for a change. im out
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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.
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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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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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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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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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They say drugs are not the answer, but really, what is the question?
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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.
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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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Whenever she thought she could not feel more alone, the universe peeled back another layer of darkness.
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I felt like an undeveloped photograph that he was printing, my image rising to the surface under his gaze.
Janet Fitch
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What happened to a dream without a dreamer?
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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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The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
Janet Fitch
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The nearest I'd come to feeling anything like God was the plan blue cloudless sky and a certain silence, but how do you pray to that?
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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
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