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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.

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
Life
Scars
Scar
Wounds
Face
Faces
Past
Without

More quotes by Janet Fitch

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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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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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Who was I, really? I was the sole occupant of my mother's totalitarian state, my own personal history rewritten to fit the story she was telling that day. There were so many missing pieces. I was starting to find some of them, working my way upriver, collecting a secret cache of broken memories in a shoebox.
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We have no home, she told me. I am your home.
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When you're a little kid, you are small, your life is small - and you're terrifically aware of that. But when you read, you can ride Arabian horses across the desert, you can be a dogsledder.
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A womans mistakes are different from a girls
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Death like a lover, caressing him, promising him peace, running its fingers through his hair, its tongue in his ear. She put her own two fingers in her mouth. Im so sorry. And pulled the trigger
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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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It's not that he was going nowhere, it's that he'd already arrived.
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There is no God, there is only what you want.
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Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.
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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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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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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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When I start writing, my unconscious, my conflicts, my thoughts all start to come up. So for me, writing is an exploration. I never know how my stories will end.
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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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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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I felt like an undeveloped photograph that he was printing, my image rising to the surface under his gaze.
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What happened to a dream without a dreamer?
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I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, men who made you love them then changed their minds.
Janet Fitch