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

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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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Whenever she thought she could not feel more alone, the universe peeled back another layer of darkness.
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Who are you? the band sang. I tried to remember but I really couldn't say.
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I felt like an undeveloped photograph that he was printing, my image rising to the surface under his gaze.
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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
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A novel is like a dream in which everyone is you. They’re all parts of yourself.
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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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The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.
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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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Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.
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Now I wish she'd never broken any of her rules. I understood why she held to them so hard. Once you broke the first one, they all broke, one by one, like firecrackers exploding in your face in a parking lot on the Fourth of July.
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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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She laughed so easily when she was happy. But also when she was sad.
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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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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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One can bear anything. The pain we cannot bear will kill us outright.
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We have no home, she told me. I am your home.
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Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.
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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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The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
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