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Wasn't that the way it always was? You didn't know, you couldn't tell, you just let it happen... Perhaps they didn't know themselves. Sometimes the line was very fine.

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
Happens
Line
Sometimes
Perhaps
Way
Fine
Always
Wasn
Happen
Lines
Tell
Didn
Couldn

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Life should always be like this. ... Like lingering over a good meal.
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When I read, I want to be fully transported to another place. I want to feel things, smell things.
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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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Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.
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They say drugs are not the answer, but really, what is the question?
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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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It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.
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Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.
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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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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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She laughed so easily when she was happy. But also when she was sad.
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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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One can bear anything. The pain we cannot bear will kill us outright.
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I understood why she did it. At that moment I knew why people tagged graffiti on the walls of neat little houses and scratched the paint on new cars and beat up well-tended children. It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.
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No matter how unappealing, each of them imagines he is somehow worthy.
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I almost said, you're not broken, you're just going through something. But i couldn't. She knew. There was something terribly wrong with her, all the way inside. She was like a big diamond with a dead spot in the middle. I was supposed to breathe life into that dead spot, but it hadn't worked.
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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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My father was an engineer - he wasn't literary, not a writer or a journalist, but he was one of the world's great readers. Every two weeks, he'd take me to our local branch library and pull books off the shelf for me, stacking them up in my arms - 'Have you read this? And this? And this?
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There is no God, there is only what you want.
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