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I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, men who made you love them then changed their minds.

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
Close
Changed
Made
Mind
Doorways
Men
Hanging
Love
Minds
Tired
Standing

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No matter how unappealing, each of them imagines he is somehow worthy.
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It's all I ever really wanted, that revelation. The possibility of fixed stars.
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I wish my life could be like that, knotted up so that even if something broke, the whole thing wouldn't come apart.
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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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You must find a boy your own age. Someone mild and beautiful to be your lover. Someone who will tremble for your touch, offer you a marguerite by its long stem with his eyes lowered. Someone whose fingers are a poem.
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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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Panic was the worst thing. When you panicked, you couldn't see possibilities. Then came despair.
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There is no God, there is only what you want.
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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.
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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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I'm a fish swimming by...catch me if you want me.
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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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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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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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At every moment, each instrument knew what to play. Its little bit. But none could see the whole thing like this, all at once, only its own part. Just like life. Each person was like a line of music, but nobody knew what the symphony sounded like. Only the conductor had the whole score.
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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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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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Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.
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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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The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.
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