Quote

We recived our colouring from the Norsemen,hairy savages who hacked their gods to pieces and hung the flesh from trees.We are the ones who sacked Rome.Fear only feeble old age and death in bed.Don't forget who you are.

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
Forget
Trees
Colouring
Fear
Gods
Sacked
Death
Bed
Hairy
Flesh
Hacked
Ones
Feeble
Pieces
Savages
Tree
Rome
Age
Hung

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This is what happens when you fall in love. You're looking at a natural disaster.
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If I get ideas independently of the act of writing, they never really fit. So for me, there's no hanging out, waiting for inspiration.
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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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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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her scruffy innoscense to impregnate with his dreams. reason was seductive, it gave the appearance of truth
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She’s never where she is,' I said. 'She’s only inside her head.
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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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Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.
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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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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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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.
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It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.
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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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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
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Women always put men first. That's how everything got so screwed up.
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They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.
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Find someone who will tremble for your touch, someone whose fingers are a poem.
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A womans mistakes are different from a girls
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To know I was beautiful in his eyes made me beautiful.
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