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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: 69
Born: 1955
Born: November 9
Author
Journalist
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
LA
California
Janet Elizabeth Fitch
Whether
Show
Shows
Someone
Ever
Wondered
Mean
Someday
Would
Hear
Love
Beauty

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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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She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.
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I took the volume to a table, opened its soft, ivory pages... and fell into it as into a pool during dry season.
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It's all I ever really wanted, that revelation. The possibility of fixed stars.
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She should think about her own soul, what she was going to do with this funky tattered pond dank item. Dark and stained, a ruined thing.
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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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We recived our colouring from the Norsemen,hairy savages who hacked their gods to pieces and hung the flesh from trees.We are the ones who sacked Rome.Fear only feeble old age and death in bed.Don't forget who you are.
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Isn't it funny.I'm enjoying my hatred so much more than i ever enjoyed love. Love is temperamental. Tiring. It makes demands. Love uses you, changes its mind. But hatred, now, that's something you can use. Sculpt. Wield. It's hard, or soft, however you need it. Love humiliates you, but Hatred cradles you.
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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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The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
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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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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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I was always mortified.Didn't they know they were tying thier mothers to the ground? Weren't chains ashamed of their prisoners?
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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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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 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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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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That was what she really wanted. To forget so thoroughly she'd never have another memory again, the bitter so bitter you gave up the sweet.
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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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Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.
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