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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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Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.
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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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What happened to a dream without a dreamer?
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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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No matter how unappealing, each of them imagines he is somehow worthy.
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She would buy magic every day of the week. Love me, that face said. I'm so lonely, so desperate. I'll give you whatever you want.
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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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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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I've been depressed many times in my life. But under it all I'm an optimist.
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It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.
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echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.
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like a kid kicked out of class. humiliated and free.
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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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Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.
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Pick a better verb. Most people use twenty verbs to describe everything from a run in their stocking to the explosion of an A-bomb.
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Who are you? the band sang. I tried to remember but I really couldn't say.
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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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A cliche 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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The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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