Quote

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.

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
Made
Second
Eternity
Liver
Every
Rest
Meant
Permitted
Kind
Fire
Perfection
Eagles
Life
Beauty
Rock
Managed
Like
Guy
Paid
Steal
Lasts
Rocks
Tenderness
Chained
Last
Couldn
Stealing
Eagle
Enough
Taste
Gods
Stole

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Find someone who will tremble for your touch, someone whose fingers are a poem.
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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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I've been depressed many times in my life. But under it all I'm an optimist.
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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
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echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.
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I couldn't imagine owning beauty like my mothers. I wouldn't dare.
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Who are you? the band sang. I tried to remember but I really couldn't say.
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What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?
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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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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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Inside every human being, there is unlimited time and space.
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That was what she really wanted. To forget so thoroughly she'd never have another memory again, the bitter so bitter you gave up the sweet.
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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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She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.
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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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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
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She was a beautiful woman dragging a crippled foot and I was that foot. I was bricks sewn into the hem of her clothes, I was a steel dress
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I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, men who made you love them then changed their minds.
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