Quote

She was a beautiful woman dragging a crippled foot and I was that foot. I was bricks sewn into the hem of her clothes, I was a steel dress

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
Dress
Dresses
Sewn
Clothes
Hem
Feet
Dragging
Woman
Crippled
Beautiful
Bricks
Steel
Foot

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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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Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.
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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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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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Inside every human being, there is unlimited time and space.
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Appealing to the five senses is the feature that will always set writing apart from the visual media. A good writer will tell us what the world smells like, what the textures are, what the sounds are, what the light looks like, what the weather is.
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A womans mistakes are different from a girls
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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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Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.
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Do you ever want to go home?' I asked Paul. He brushed an ash from my face. 'It's the century of the displaced person,' he said. 'You can never go home.
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To know I was beautiful in his eyes made me beautiful.
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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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here, here is my dark world. you carry it for a change. im out
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A cliche is everything you've ever heard of.
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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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Writing mirrors the interior self. You know, any book is like the perfect blueprint of the psyche of the author.
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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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echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.
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Girls were born knowing how destructive the truth could be. They learned to hold it in, tamp it down, like gunpowder in an old fashioned gun. Then it exploded in your face on a November day in the rain.
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...The men eyed her with the automatic mix of curiosity, lust, and aesthetic judgment they always gave young women, subject to object, the way you'd stare at an animal. She pretended not to notice. To remind them she was a person was too much effort. Objects bore no guilt.
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