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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
Hatred
Glittered
Cold
Sapphire
Sapphires
Irresistibly
Norway
Jewel
Jewels
Lakes
More quotes by Janet Fitch
How easy I was. Like a limpet I attached myself to anything, anyone who showed me the least attention.
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We have no home, she told me. I am your home.
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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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A novel is like a dream in which everyone is you. They’re all parts of yourself.
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I'm incredibly restless. I read a lot of poetry. I also find myself reading the first 20 pages of everything, looking for something. And you know what? I'm usually looking for the book I'm writing. And it's not out there!
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Death like a lover, caressing him, promising him peace, running its fingers through his hair, its tongue in his ear. She put her own two fingers in her mouth. Im so sorry. And pulled the trigger
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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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No matter how unappealing, each of them imagines he is somehow worthy.
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Inside every human being, there is unlimited time and space.
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Depression, suffering and anger are all part of being human.
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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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My hatred gives me strength.
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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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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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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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I've been depressed many times in my life. But under it all I'm an optimist.
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A cliché 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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In a perverse way, I was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars. What was the point in just being hurt on the inside? It should bloody well show.
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purification in fire. public cremation
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this was the wonderful thing about strangers. they were big blank pieces of paper, you could draw watever you like on their impresionable surfaces
Janet Fitch
