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: 69
Born: 1955
Born: November 9
Author
Journalist
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
LA
California
Janet Elizabeth Fitch
Ones
Feeble
Pieces
Savages
Tree
Rome
Age
Hung
Forget
Trees
Colouring
Fear
Gods
Sacked
Death
Bed
Hairy
Flesh
Hacked

More quotes by Janet Fitch

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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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It's not that he was going nowhere, it's that he'd already arrived.
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Women always put men first. That's how everything got so screwed up.
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She’s never where she is,' I said. 'She’s only inside her head.
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To make films, you have to have boundless energy you have to work and play with others really, really well, and I'm really a more contemplative kind of person. I like to sit at home and think, a lot.
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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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To know I was beautiful in his eyes made me beautiful.
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One can bear anything. The pain we cannot bear will kill us outright.
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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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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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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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How could anybody confuse truth with beauty, I thought as I looked at him. Truth came with sunken eyes, bony or scarred, decayed. Its teeth were bad, its hair gray and unkempt. While beauty was empty as a gourd, vain as a parakeet. But it had power. It smelled of musk and oranges and made you close your eyes in a prayer.
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Do you ever want to go home?' I asked Paul. He brushed an ash from my face. 'It's the century of the displaced person,' he said. 'You can never go home.
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A cliché 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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I felt suddenly cruel, like I´d told dmall children there was no tooth fairy, that it was just their Mom sneaking into their room after they went to bed.
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Whenever she turned her steep focus to me, I felt the warmth that flowers must feel when they bloom through the snow, under the first concentrated rays of the sun.
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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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Writing mirrors the interior self. You know, any book is like the perfect blueprint of the psyche of the author.
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What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?
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Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.
Janet Fitch