Quote

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.

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
Humans
Capacity
Thing
Hold
Much
Question
Wasn
Oleanders
Stand
Fullness
Suffering
Awe
Care
Vast
Human
Survival

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Panic was the worst thing. When you panicked, you couldn't see possibilities. Then came despair.
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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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If sinners where so unhappy, why would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why. Without my wounds, who was I?
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She laughed so easily when she was happy. But also when she was sad.
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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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Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.
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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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Her fingers moved among barnacles and mussels, blue-black, sharp-edged. Neon red starfish were limp Dalis on the rocks, surrounded by bouquets of stinging anemones and purple bursts of spiny sea urchins.
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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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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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I thought of my mother as Queen Christina, cool and sad, eyes trained on some distant horizon. That was where she belonged, in furs and palaces of rare treasures, fireplaces large enough to roast a reindeer, ships of Swedish maple.
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I imagined my soul taking in these words like silicated water in the Petrified Forest, turning my wood to patterned agate. I liked it when my mother shaped me this way. I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.
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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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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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The story of her life. God gave you everything just to take it away. Just so you knew exactly what you were missing.
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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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Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.
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It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.
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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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I've been depressed many times in my life. But under it all I'm an optimist.
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