Quote

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.

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
Moved
Bursts
Blue
Neon
Urchins
Rocks
Purple
Barnacles
Among
Sharp
Stinging
Black
Surrounded
Starfish
Red
Edged
Fingers
Bouquets
Sea
Limp

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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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Remember it all, every insult, every tear. Tattoo it on the inside of your mind. In life, knowledge of poisons is essential. I've told you, nobody becomes an artist unless they have to.
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Panic was the worst thing. When you panicked, you couldn't see possibilities. Then came despair.
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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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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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It's all I ever really wanted, that revelation. The possibility of fixed stars.
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I was always mortified.Didn't they know they were tying thier mothers to the ground? Weren't chains ashamed of their prisoners?
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This is what happens when you fall in love. You're looking at a natural disaster.
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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
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The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
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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 person didn’t need to be beautiful, they just needed to be loved. But I couldn’t help wanting it. If that was the way I could be loved, to be beautiful, I’d take it
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Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.
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It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.
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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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A novel is like a dream in which everyone is you. They’re all parts of yourself.
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Beauty was deceptive. I would rather wear my pain, my ugliness. I was torn and stitched. I was a strip mine, and they would just have to look. I hoped I made them sick. I hoped they saw me in their dreams.
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echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.
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The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.
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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.
Janet Fitch