Quote

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.

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
Made
Vain
Gourd
Empty
Parakeet
Close
Parakeets
Prayer
Gourds
Beauty
Musk
Eyes
Oranges
Eye
Smelled
Power
Orange

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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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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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Your protagonist is your reader’s portal into the story. The more observant he or she can be, the more vivid will be the world you’re creating. They don’t have to be super-educated, they just have to be mentally active. Keep them looking, thinking, wondering, remembering.
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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.
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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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I felt suddenly cruel, like I´d told dmall children there was no tooth fairy, that it was just their Mom sneaking into their room after they went to bed.
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I felt like time was a great sea, and I was floating on the back of a turtle, and no sails broke the horizon.
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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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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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Dawn tinted the darkness like water ink.
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purification in fire. public cremation
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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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A cliche is everything you've ever heard of.
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Aquamarines grew with emeralds, Claire told me. But emeralds were fragile and always broke into smaller pieces, while aquamarines were stronger, grew in huge crystals without any trouble, so they weren't worth as much. It was the emerald that didn't break that was the really valuable thing.
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I closed my eyes to watch tiny dancers like jeweled birds cross the dark screen of my eyelids.
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My hatred gives me strength.
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When you're a little kid, you are small, your life is small - and you're terrifically aware of that. But when you read, you can ride Arabian horses across the desert, you can be a dogsledder.
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We read so that we can be moved by a new way of looking at things.
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Always learn poems by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they'll make your soul impervious to the world's soft decay.
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I couldn't imagine owning beauty like my mothers. I wouldn't dare.
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