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What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?

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
Seven
Tears
Teach
Names
Possibly
Twenty
Twenties

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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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Whenever she thought she could not feel more alone, the universe peeled back another layer of darkness.
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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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She laughed so easily when she was happy. But also when she was sad.
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That kind of tenderness couldn't be permitted to last. You only got a taste, enough to know what perfection meant, and then you paid for it the rest of your life. Like the guy chained to a rock, who stole fire. The gods made an eagle eat his liver for all eternity. You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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What happened to a dream without a dreamer?
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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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history only existed in the human mind, subject to endless revision. 'each man kills the thing he loves'-Oscar Wilde. You kill it before it kills you, but he was wrong. you killed it by accident. thinking you were doing something else. shattering, when all you wanted to do was keep it safe.
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When you're a little kid, you are small, your life is small - and you're terrifically aware of that. But when you read, you can ride Arabian horses across the desert, you can be a dogsledder.
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echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.
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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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It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.
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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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Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.
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Once you get below the floor of our personal identities, we're all connected. Perhaps that's why we can move into others' lives.
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He hated crowds, never liked punk. He couldn't handle the nakedness of the rage -his own so sophisticated and finely tuned. He could never see the similarity between himself and Donnie Draino screaming into a mic.
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In a perverse way, I was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars. What was the point in just being hurt on the inside? It should bloody well show.
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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.
Janet Fitch
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Being in the library is so addictive for me that I really have to exercise self-control so I can get some writing done at home.
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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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