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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

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To know I was beautiful in his eyes made me beautiful.
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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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history only existed in the human mind, subject to endless revision. 'each man kills the thing he loves'-Oscar Wilde. You kill it before it kills you, but he was wrong. you killed it by accident. thinking you were doing something else. shattering, when all you wanted to do was keep it safe.
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Find someone who will tremble for your touch, someone whose fingers are a poem.
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The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.
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At every moment, each instrument knew what to play. Its little bit. But none could see the whole thing like this, all at once, only its own part. Just like life. Each person was like a line of music, but nobody knew what the symphony sounded like. Only the conductor had the whole score.
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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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Panic was the worst thing. When you panicked, you couldn't see possibilities. Then came despair.
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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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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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My father was an engineer - he wasn't literary, not a writer or a journalist, but he was one of the world's great readers. Every two weeks, he'd take me to our local branch library and pull books off the shelf for me, stacking them up in my arms - 'Have you read this? And this? And this?
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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 use my fiction to explore my own unconscious issues. I usually don't even know what's going on with me until I'm writing.
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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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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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I closed my eyes to watch tiny dancers like jeweled birds cross the dark screen of my eyelids.
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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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The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
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A person didn’t need to be beautiful, they just needed to be loved. But I couldn’t help wanting it. If that was the way I could be loved, to be beautiful, I’d take it
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purification in fire. public cremation
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