Quote

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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Janet Fitch
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: November 9
Author
Journalist
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
LA
California
Janet Elizabeth Fitch
Must
Whose
Stem
Long
Boys
Lover
Love
Eyes
Poem
Age
Offer
Eye
Lovers
Beautiful
Fingers
Lowered
Someone
Touch
Tremble
Find
Offers
Mild

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Take my advice. Stay away from all broken people.
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A novel is like a dream in which everyone is you. They’re all parts of yourself.
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There is no God, there is only what you want.
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We don't have a unitary society anymore, you know it's very fragmented. I look up and down my block in Silverlake and there is a different universe in every house.
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My house is modern, but I like my writing room to be old fashioned. I write on a little wooden secretary desk.
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One can bear anything. The pain we cannot bear will kill us outright.
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Inside every human being, there is unlimited time and space.
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And if there is no god? You act as if there is, and it's the same thing.
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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
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I felt like time was a great sea, and I was floating on the back of a turtle, and no sails broke the horizon.
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like a kid kicked out of class. humiliated and free.
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We strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental.
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She kissed me on the mouth. Her mouth tasted like iced coffee and cardamom, and I was overwhelmed by the taste, her hot skin and the smell of unwashed hair. I was confused, but not unwilling. I would have let her do anything to me.
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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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Whenever she thought she could not feel more alone, the universe peeled back another layer of darkness.
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I wanted to hear what she was saying. I wanted to smell that burnt midnight again, I wanted to feel that wind. It was a secret wanting, like a song I couldn't stop humming, or loving someone I could never have. No matter where I went, my compass pointed west. I would always know what time it was in California.
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I emitted some civetlike female stink, a distinct perfume of sexual wanting, that he had followed to find me here in the dark.
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We read so that we can be moved by a new way of looking at things.
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Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.
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Depression, suffering and anger are all part of being human.
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