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I wondered where he was now whether I would ever hear him again. Whether someone would love him, someday show him what beauty mean't.

Janet Fitch

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Janet Fitch
Age: 68
Born: 1955
Born: November 9
Author
Journalist
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
LA
California
Janet Elizabeth Fitch
Mean
Someday
Would
Hear
Love
Beauty
Whether
Show
Shows
Someone
Ever
Wondered

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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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That kind of tenderness couldn't be permitted to last. You only got a taste, enough to know what perfection meant, and then you paid for it the rest of your life. Like the guy chained to a rock, who stole fire. The gods made an eagle eat his liver for all eternity. You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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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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This is what happens when you fall in love. You're looking at a natural disaster.
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I felt suddenly cruel, like I´d told dmall children there was no tooth fairy, that it was just their Mom sneaking into their room after they went to bed.
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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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The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
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But I knew one more thing. That people w ho denied who they were or where they had been were in the greatest danger.
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echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.
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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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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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We have no home, she told me. I am your home.
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she’s not as pretty as you,” I said “But she’s a simpler girl,” my mother whispered.
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A cliche is everything you've ever heard of.
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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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To make films, you have to have boundless energy you have to work and play with others really, really well, and I'm really a more contemplative kind of person. I like to sit at home and think, a lot.
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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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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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I'm incredibly restless. I read a lot of poetry. I also find myself reading the first 20 pages of everything, looking for something. And you know what? I'm usually looking for the book I'm writing. And it's not out there!
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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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