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: 68
Born: 1955
Born: November 9
Author
Journalist
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
LA
California
Janet Elizabeth Fitch
Book
Shelves
Spines
Guests
Stacks
Along
Cultured
Wonderful
Wandered
Books
Opinionated
Party
Whispering
Running
Spine
Hands
Reminded

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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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How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?
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We read so that we can be moved by a new way of looking at things.
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What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?
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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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I felt like an undeveloped photograph that he was printing, my image rising to the surface under his gaze.
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At every moment, each instrument knew what to play. Its little bit. But none could see the whole thing like this, all at once, only its own part. Just like life. Each person was like a line of music, but nobody knew what the symphony sounded like. Only the conductor had the whole score.
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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
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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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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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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.
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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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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
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The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
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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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But I knew one more thing. That people w ho denied who they were or where they had been were in the greatest danger.
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Inside every human being, there is unlimited time and space.
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A person didn’t need to be beautiful, they just needed to be loved. But I couldn’t help wanting it. If that was the way I could be loved, to be beautiful, I’d take it
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She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.
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