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Take my advice. Stay away from all broken people.

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
Oleanders
Advice
Broken
Stay
Away
Take
People

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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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Women always put men first. That's how everything got so screwed up.
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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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It's all I ever really wanted, that revelation. The possibility of fixed stars.
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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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Beauty was empty as a gourd, vain as a parakeet. But it had power. It smelled of musk and oranges and made you close your eyes in a prayer.
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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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this was the wonderful thing about strangers. they were big blank pieces of paper, you could draw watever you like on their impresionable surfaces
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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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her scruffy innoscense to impregnate with his dreams. reason was seductive, it gave the appearance of truth
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How could anybody confuse truth with beauty, I thought as I looked at him. Truth came with sunken eyes, bony or scarred, decayed. Its teeth were bad, its hair gray and unkempt. While beauty was empty as a gourd, vain as a parakeet. But it had power. It smelled of musk and oranges and made you close your eyes in a prayer.
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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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It's not that he was going nowhere, it's that he'd already arrived.
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Writing mirrors the interior self. You know, any book is like the perfect blueprint of the psyche of the author.
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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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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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We read so that we can be moved by a new way of looking at things.
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Once you get below the floor of our personal identities, we're all connected. Perhaps that's why we can move into others' lives.
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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
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A cliche is everything you've ever heard of.
Janet Fitch