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My hatred gives me strength.

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
Hatred
Strength
Gives
Hate
Giving

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The story of her life. God gave you everything just to take it away. Just so you knew exactly what you were missing.
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It's not that he was going nowhere, it's that he'd already arrived.
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I understood why she did it. At that moment I knew why people tagged graffiti on the walls of neat little houses and scratched the paint on new cars and beat up well-tended children. It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.
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It's all I ever really wanted, that revelation. The possibility of fixed stars.
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Depression, suffering and anger are all part of being human.
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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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We strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental.
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If I get ideas independently of the act of writing, they never really fit. So for me, there's no hanging out, waiting for inspiration.
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My father was an engineer - he wasn't literary, not a writer or a journalist, but he was one of the world's great readers. Every two weeks, he'd take me to our local branch library and pull books off the shelf for me, stacking them up in my arms - 'Have you read this? And this? And this?
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And I realized as I walked through the neighborhood how each house could contain a completely different reality. In a single block, there could be fifty seperate worlds. Nobody ever really knew what was going on just next door.
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Panic was the worst thing. When you panicked, you couldn't see possibilities. Then came despair.
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She would be half a planet away, floating in a turquoise sea, dancing by moonlight to flamenco guitar.
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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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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
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If sinners where so unhappy, why would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why. Without my wounds, who was I?
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Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.
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A cliche is everything you've ever heard of.
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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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You can't shape me anymore. I am the uncontrolled element, the random act. I am forward movement in time. You think you can see me? Then tell me, who am I? You don't know.
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I thought of my mother as Queen Christina, cool and sad, eyes trained on some distant horizon. That was where she belonged, in furs and palaces of rare treasures, fireplaces large enough to roast a reindeer, ships of Swedish maple.
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