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In a perverse way, I was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars. What was the point in just being hurt on the inside? It should bloody well show.
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
Would
Inside
Hurt
Point
Stitches
Show
Perverse
Shows
Scars
Wells
Scar
Well
Bloody
Way
Glad
More quotes by Janet Fitch
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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I decided that if I was never going to sell anything as long as I lived, I might as well do what I want to do 'cause then at least I would've done what I wanted to do in life. What's that worth?
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When I read, I want to be fully transported to another place. I want to feel things, smell things.
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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
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She kissed me on the mouth. Her mouth tasted like iced coffee and cardamom, and I was overwhelmed by the taste, her hot skin and the smell of unwashed hair. I was confused, but not unwilling. I would have let her do anything to me.
Janet Fitch
One can bear anything. The pain we cannot bear will kill us outright.
Janet Fitch
Never apologize. Never explain.
Janet Fitch
Dawn tinted the darkness like water ink.
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I thought how tenuous the links were between mother and children between friends family things you think are eternal. Everything could be lost more easily than anyone could imagine.
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It's all I ever really wanted, that revelation. The possibility of fixed stars.
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What happened to a dream without a dreamer?
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Being in the library is so addictive for me that I really have to exercise self-control so I can get some writing done at home.
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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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I wandered through the stacks, running my hands along the spines of the books on the shelves, they reminded me of cultured or opinionated guests at a wonderful party, whispering to each other.
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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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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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her scruffy innoscense to impregnate with his dreams. reason was seductive, it gave the appearance of truth
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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
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.
Janet Fitch