Quote

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.

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
Running
Spine
Hands
Reminded
Book
Shelves
Spines
Guests
Stacks
Along
Cultured
Wonderful
Wandered
Books
Opinionated
Party
Whispering

More quotes by Janet Fitch

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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.
Janet Fitch
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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
Janet Fitch
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Beauty was deceptive. I would rather wear my pain, my ugliness. I was torn and stitched. I was a strip mine, and they would just have to look. I hoped I made them sick. I hoped they saw me in their dreams.
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Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.
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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
Janet Fitch
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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.
Janet Fitch
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Remember...we don't see objects, we see light. [...] Light can do anything water can do--flow, wash, trickle. It can do anything an artist can do--paint, burnish, carve. Candlelight falls, licks a face. There is always light in a room.
Janet Fitch
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She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.
Janet Fitch
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We strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental.
Janet Fitch
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Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.
Janet Fitch
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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.
Janet Fitch
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The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.
Janet Fitch
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I felt like an undeveloped photograph that he was printing, my image rising to the surface under his gaze.
Janet Fitch
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I wondered where he was now whether I would ever hear him again. Whether someone would love him, someday show him what beauty mean't.
Janet Fitch
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What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?
Janet Fitch
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I use my fiction to explore my own unconscious issues. I usually don't even know what's going on with me until I'm writing.
Janet Fitch
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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
Janet Fitch
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But I knew one more thing. That people w ho denied who they were or where they had been were in the greatest danger.
Janet Fitch
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When I start writing, my unconscious, my conflicts, my thoughts all start to come up. So for me, writing is an exploration. I never know how my stories will end.
Janet Fitch
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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.
Janet Fitch