Explore Quotes by Janet Fitch

I could hear the icy winds of Sweden, but he didn't seem to feel the chill.

My loneliness tasted like pennies.

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

Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.

The nearest I'd come to feeling anything like God was the plan blue cloudless sky and a certain silence, but how do you pray to that?

What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?

Don't turn over the rocks if you don't want to see the pale creatures who live under them.

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.

A novel is like a dream in which everyone is you. They’re all parts of yourself.

Who are you? the band sang. I tried to remember but I really couldn't say.

I imagined my soul taking in these words like silicated water in the Petrified Forest, turning my wood to patterned agate. I liked it when my mother shaped me this way. I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.

How vast was a human being's capacity for suffering. The only thing you could do was stand in awe of it. It wasn't a question of survival at all. It was the fullness of it, how much could you hold, how much could you care.

Love is a check, that can be forged, that can be cashed. Love is a payment that comes due.

I almost said, you're not broken, you're just going through something. But i couldn't. She knew. There was something terribly wrong with her, all the way inside. She was like a big diamond with a dead spot in the middle. I was supposed to breathe life into that dead spot, but it hadn't worked.

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.

If sinners where so unhappy, why would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why. Without my wounds, who was I?

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.

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

They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.

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

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.