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: 69
Born: 1955
Born: November 9
Author
Journalist
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
LA
California
Janet Elizabeth Fitch
Much
Question
Wasn
Oleanders
Stand
Fullness
Suffering
Awe
Care
Vast
Human
Survival
Humans
Capacity
Thing
Hold

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No matter how unappealing, each of them imagines he is somehow worthy.
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Remember it all, every insult, every tear. Tattoo it on the inside of your mind. In life, knowledge of poisons is essential. I've told you, nobody becomes an artist unless they have to.
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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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Life should always be like this. ... Like lingering over a good meal.
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How easy I was. Like a limpet I attached myself to anything, anyone who showed me the least attention.
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You must find a boy your own age. Someone mild and beautiful to be your lover. Someone who will tremble for your touch, offer you a marguerite by its long stem with his eyes lowered. Someone whose fingers are a poem.
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I wandered through the stacks, running my hands along the spines of the books on the shelves, they reminded me of cultured or opinionated guests at a wonderful party, whispering to each other.
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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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Panic was the worst thing. When you panicked, you couldn't see possibilities. Then came despair.
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I decided that if I was never going to sell anything as long as I lived, I might as well do what I want to do 'cause then at least I would've done what I wanted to do in life. What's that worth?
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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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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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I closed my eyes to watch tiny dancers like jeweled birds cross the dark screen of my eyelids.
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And I realized as I walked through the neighborhood how each house could contain a completely different reality. In a single block, there could be fifty seperate worlds. Nobody ever really knew what was going on just next door.
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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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When I read, I want to be fully transported to another place. I want to feel things, smell things.
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Who was I, really? I was the sole occupant of my mother's totalitarian state, my own personal history rewritten to fit the story she was telling that day. There were so many missing pieces. I was starting to find some of them, working my way upriver, collecting a secret cache of broken memories in a shoebox.
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This is what happens when you fall in love. You're looking at a natural disaster.
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One can bear anything. The pain we cannot bear will kill us outright.
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Appealing to the five senses is the feature that will always set writing apart from the visual media. A good writer will tell us what the world smells like, what the textures are, what the sounds are, what the light looks like, what the weather is.
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