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Panic was the worst thing. When you panicked, you couldn't see possibilities. Then came despair.

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
Panicked
Thing
Panic
Possibilities
Despair
Possibility
Couldn
Worst
Came

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We read so that we can be moved by a new way of looking at things.
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At every moment, each instrument knew what to play. Its little bit. But none could see the whole thing like this, all at once, only its own part. Just like life. Each person was like a line of music, but nobody knew what the symphony sounded like. Only the conductor had the whole score.
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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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I'm incredibly restless. I read a lot of poetry. I also find myself reading the first 20 pages of everything, looking for something. And you know what? I'm usually looking for the book I'm writing. And it's not out there!
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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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What is real is always worth it.
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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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The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
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Who are you? the band sang. I tried to remember but I really couldn't say.
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She would be half a planet away, floating in a turquoise sea, dancing by moonlight to flamenco guitar.
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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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How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?
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What happened to a dream without a dreamer?
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His voice was cloves and nightingales, it took us to spice markets in the Celebs, we drifted with him on a houseboat beyond the Coral Sea. We were like cobras following a reed flute.
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She’s never where she is,' I said. 'She’s only inside her head.
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Their love as a dragonfly, skimming over echo park, stoppin to visit the lotus. Eating dreams and drinking blue sky.
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We strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental.
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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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...The men eyed her with the automatic mix of curiosity, lust, and aesthetic judgment they always gave young women, subject to object, the way you'd stare at an animal. She pretended not to notice. To remind them she was a person was too much effort. Objects bore no guilt.
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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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