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echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.

Janet Fitch

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Janet Fitch
Age: 68
Born: 1955
Born: November 9
Author
Journalist
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
LA
California
Janet Elizabeth Fitch
Echo
Echoes
Nowhere
Sound
Death
Back
Come

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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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Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.
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here, here is my dark world. you carry it for a change. im out
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She would buy magic every day of the week. Love me, that face said. I'm so lonely, so desperate. I'll give you whatever you want.
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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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Writing mirrors the interior self. You know, any book is like the perfect blueprint of the psyche of the author.
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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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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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Whenever she thought she could not feel more alone, the universe peeled back another layer of darkness.
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I'm a fish swimming by...catch me if you want me.
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What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?
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And I realized as I walked through the neighborhood how each house could contain a completely different reality. In a single block, there could be fifty seperate worlds. Nobody ever really knew what was going on just next door.
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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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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.
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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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We strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental.
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There is no God, there is only what you want.
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She kissed me on the mouth. Her mouth tasted like iced coffee and cardamom, and I was overwhelmed by the taste, her hot skin and the smell of unwashed hair. I was confused, but not unwilling. I would have let her do anything to me.
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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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What is real is always worth it.
Janet Fitch