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
Age
Offer
Eye
Lovers
Beautiful
Fingers
Lowered
Someone
Touch
Tremble
Find
Offers
Mild
Must
Whose
Stem
Long
Boys
Lover
Love
Eyes
Poem

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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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Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.
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Women always put men first. That's how everything got so screwed up.
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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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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
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Whenever she turned her steep focus to me, I felt the warmth that flowers must feel when they bloom through the snow, under the first concentrated rays of the sun.
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The cake had a trick candle that wouldn't go out, so I didn't get my wish. Which was just that it would always be like this, that my life could be a party just for me.
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Depression, suffering and anger are all part of being human.
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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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How easy I was. Like a limpet I attached myself to anything, anyone who showed me the least attention.
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Do you ever want to go home?' I asked Paul. He brushed an ash from my face. 'It's the century of the displaced person,' he said. 'You can never go home.
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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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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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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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I could hear the icy winds of Sweden, but he didn't seem to feel the chill.
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No matter how unappealing, each of them imagines he is somehow worthy.
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I couldn't imagine owning beauty like my mothers. I wouldn't dare.
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I wish my life could be like that, knotted up so that even if something broke, the whole thing wouldn't come apart.
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In a perverse way, I was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars. What was the point in just being hurt on the inside? It should bloody well show.
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she’s not as pretty as you,” I said “But she’s a simpler girl,” my mother whispered.
Janet Fitch