Janet Fitch Quotes - Page 3

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.

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.

Now I wish she'd never broken any of her rules. I understood why she held to them so hard. Once you broke the first one, they all broke, one by one, like firecrackers exploding in your face in a parking lot on the Fourth of July.

Depression, suffering and anger are all part of being human.

She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.

I wondered where he was now whether I would ever hear him again. Whether someone would love him, someday show him what beauty mean't.

...You know the mistrust of heights is the mistrust of self, you don't know whether you're going to jump.

That was the thing about words, they were clear and specific-chair, eye, stone- but when you talked about feelings, words were too stiff, they were this and not that, they couldn't include all the meanings. In defining, they always left something out.

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.

I couldn't imagine owning beauty like my mothers. I wouldn't dare.

A cliche is everything you've ever heard of.

Writing mirrors the interior self. You know, any book is like the perfect blueprint of the psyche of the author.

What happened to a dream without a dreamer?

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.

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.

without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.

A womans mistakes are different from a girls

I felt beautiful but also interrupted. I wasn't used to being so complicated.

I wanted to tell her not to entertain despair like this. Despaire wasn't a guest, you didn't play its favorite music, find it a comfortable chair. Despair was the enemy." -white oleander

Pick a better verb. Most people use twenty verbs to describe everything from a run in their stocking to the explosion of an A-bomb.

We have no home, she told me. I am your home.

It's their skins I'm peeling," she said. "The skins of the insipid scribblers, which I graft to the page, creating monsters of meaninglessness.

For she is my love, and other women are but big bodies of flame.

He reminded me of someone who put your fingers in the door and smiled and talked to you while he smashed them.

What was beauty unless you intended to use it, like a hammer, or a key? It was just something for other people to use and admire, or envy, despise. To nail their dreams onto like a picture hanger on a blank wall. And so many girls saying, use me, dream me.