Explore Quotes by Janet Fitch

Take my advice. Stay away from all broken people.

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

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

I'm a fish swimming by...catch me if you want me.

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.

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

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.

It's not that he was going nowhere, it's that he'd already arrived.

A womans mistakes are different from a girls

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

I was always mortified.Didn't they know they were tying thier mothers to the ground? Weren't chains ashamed of their prisoners?

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.

Isn't it funny.I'm enjoying my hatred so much more than i ever enjoyed love. Love is temperamental. Tiring. It makes demands. Love uses you, changes its mind. But hatred, now, that's something you can use. Sculpt. Wield. It's hard, or soft, however you need it. Love humiliates you, but Hatred cradles you.

Only peons made excusses for themselves she taught me. Never apologize, never explain.

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.

she’s not as pretty as you,” I said “But she’s a simpler girl,” my mother whispered.

The writer is both a sadist and a masochist. We create people we love, and then we torture them. The more we love them, and the more cleverly we torture them along the lines of their greatest vulnerability and fear, the better the story. Sometimes we try to protect them from getting booboos that are too big. Don’t. This is your protagonist, not your kid.

One can bear anything. The pain we cannot bear will kill us outright.

What happened to a dream without a dreamer?

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.