Quote

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.

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
Feels
Water
Imagined
Patterned
Way
Words
Forests
Petrified
Good
Mother
Turning
Potter
Like
Hands
Woods
Potters
Thought
Liked
Shaped
Soul
Taking
Clay
Feel
Hand
Wood
Must
Happy
Forest

More quotes by Janet Fitch

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Girls were born knowing how destructive the truth could be. They learned to hold it in, tamp it down, like gunpowder in an old fashioned gun. Then it exploded in your face on a November day in the rain.
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Dawn tinted the darkness like water ink.
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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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Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.
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she’s not as pretty as you,” I said “But she’s a simpler girl,” my mother whispered.
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The nearest I'd come to feeling anything like God was the plan blue cloudless sky and a certain silence, but how do you pray to that?
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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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What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?
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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
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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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I could hear the icy winds of Sweden, but he didn't seem to feel the chill.
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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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We strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental.
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They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.
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Life should always be like this. ... Like lingering over a good meal.
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Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.
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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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You can't shape me anymore. I am the uncontrolled element, the random act. I am forward movement in time. You think you can see me? Then tell me, who am I? You don't know.
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Never apologize. Never explain.
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echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.
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