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she’s not as pretty as you,” I said “But she’s a simpler girl,” my mother whispered.

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
Simpler
Whispered
Pretty
Girl
Mother

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She laughed so easily when she was happy. But also when she was sad.
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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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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 would be half a planet away, floating in a turquoise sea, dancing by moonlight to flamenco guitar.
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I felt suddenly cruel, like I´d told dmall children there was no tooth fairy, that it was just their Mom sneaking into their room after they went to bed.
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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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Dawn tinted the darkness like water ink.
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She should think about her own soul, what she was going to do with this funky tattered pond dank item. Dark and stained, a ruined thing.
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They say drugs are not the answer, but really, what is the question?
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What is real is always worth it.
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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
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Always learn poems by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they'll make your soul impervious to the world's soft decay.
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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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Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.
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It's not that he was going nowhere, it's that he'd already arrived.
Janet Fitch
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I was always mortified.Didn't they know they were tying thier mothers to the ground? Weren't chains ashamed of their prisoners?
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Take my advice. Stay away from all broken people.
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I took the volume to a table, opened its soft, ivory pages... and fell into it as into a pool during dry season.
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Never apologize. Never explain.
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