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How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?

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
Men
Shed
Allowed
Touch
Tears
Way
Never

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Women always put men first. That's how everything got so screwed up.
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One can bear anything. The pain we cannot bear will kill us outright.
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Aquamarines grew with emeralds, Claire told me. But emeralds were fragile and always broke into smaller pieces, while aquamarines were stronger, grew in huge crystals without any trouble, so they weren't worth as much. It was the emerald that didn't break that was the really valuable thing.
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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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My house is modern, but I like my writing room to be old fashioned. I write on a little wooden secretary desk.
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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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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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How vast was a human being's capacity for suffering. The only thing you could do was stand in awe of it. It wasn't a question of survival at all. It was the fullness of it, how much could you hold, how much could you care.
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What happened to a dream without a dreamer?
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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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That kind of tenderness couldn't be permitted to last. You only got a taste, enough to know what perfection meant, and then you paid for it the rest of your life. Like the guy chained to a rock, who stole fire. The gods made an eagle eat his liver for all eternity. You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.
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The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.
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It's not that he was going nowhere, it's that he'd already arrived.
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Panic was the worst thing. When you panicked, you couldn't see possibilities. Then came despair.
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They say drugs are not the answer, but really, what is the question?
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My hatred gives me strength.
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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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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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I closed my eyes to watch tiny dancers like jeweled birds cross the dark screen of my eyelids.
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