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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.

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
Beauty
Every
Managed
Steal
Stealing
Paid
Second

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What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?
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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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He hated crowds, never liked punk. He couldn't handle the nakedness of the rage -his own so sophisticated and finely tuned. He could never see the similarity between himself and Donnie Draino screaming into a mic.
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We strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental.
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This is what happens when you fall in love. You're looking at a natural disaster.
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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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I wanted to hear what she was saying. I wanted to smell that burnt midnight again, I wanted to feel that wind. It was a secret wanting, like a song I couldn't stop humming, or loving someone I could never have. No matter where I went, my compass pointed west. I would always know what time it was in California.
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Who are you? the band sang. I tried to remember but I really couldn't say.
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His voice was cloves and nightingales, it took us to spice markets in the Celebs, we drifted with him on a houseboat beyond the Coral Sea. We were like cobras following a reed flute.
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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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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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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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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 sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.
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She would be half a planet away, floating in a turquoise sea, dancing by moonlight to flamenco guitar.
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Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.
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You can't shape me anymore. I am the uncontrolled element, the random act. I am forward movement in time. You think you can see me? Then tell me, who am I? You don't know.
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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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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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her scruffy innoscense to impregnate with his dreams. reason was seductive, it gave the appearance of truth
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