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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.
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
Going
Item
Think
Pond
Thinking
Ponds
Items
Ruined
Tattered
Dark
Dank
Soul
Stained
Thing
Funky
More quotes by Janet Fitch
She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.
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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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echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.
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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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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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Writing mirrors the interior self. You know, any book is like the perfect blueprint of the psyche of the author.
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purification in fire. public cremation
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I felt like time was a great sea, and I was floating on the back of a turtle, and no sails broke the horizon.
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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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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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It's all I ever really wanted, that revelation. The possibility of fixed stars.
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A cliche 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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What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?
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I closed my eyes to watch tiny dancers like jeweled birds cross the dark screen of my eyelids.
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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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I decided that if I was never going to sell anything as long as I lived, I might as well do what I want to do 'cause then at least I would've done what I wanted to do in life. What's that worth?
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history only existed in the human mind, subject to endless revision. 'each man kills the thing he loves'-Oscar Wilde. You kill it before it kills you, but he was wrong. you killed it by accident. thinking you were doing something else. shattering, when all you wanted to do was keep it safe.
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I almost said, you're not broken, you're just going through something. But i couldn't. She knew. There was something terribly wrong with her, all the way inside. She was like a big diamond with a dead spot in the middle. I was supposed to breathe life into that dead spot, but it hadn't worked.
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Appealing to the five senses is the feature that will always set writing apart from the visual media. A good writer will tell us what the world smells like, what the textures are, what the sounds are, what the light looks like, what the weather is.
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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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