The largest website for English phrases and quotes

The largest website for English phrases and quotes

Category: Janet Fitch

My mother never met a gadget she didn’t like. There were tube pans for baking the angel food cakes my father could have after his first heart attack, and Bundt pans and loaf pans and baking pans and grilling pans.

Father, Mother, Heart

I tried writing fiction as a little kid, but had a teacher humiliate me, so didn’t write again until I was a senior in college.

College, Writing, Me

For what is writing besides capturing thoughts that belong to all of us, so that we can recognize ourselves, undestand ourselves, and perhaps, each other. Every thoughtful book about love makes us better lovers, I think. It opens the gates of perception.

Someday I would have lovers and write a poem after

I gazed up as if I hadn’t heard, but what I was thinking was, tellme more about the pretty girls. I was embarrassed for wanting it, itwas base, what did pretty matter? I had thought that so many timeswith my mother. A person didn’t need to be beautiful, they justneeded to be loved. But I couldn’t help wanting it. If that was theway I could be loved, to be beautiful, I’d take it.

beautiful, love, pretty

Oleander time, she said. Lovers who kill each other now will blame it on the wind.

Love humiliates you, hatred cradles you.

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.

age, beautiful, boy, love, mild, poem, touch

The phoenix must burn to emerge

failure, inspirational, success

Meredith’s father, the composer, who shot himself in this house. Came all the way from Vienna to shoot himself in LA. Escaped the Nazis but not himself.

personal-demons, suicide

She wished Michael had had a grandfather like this guy Morty, someone to tell him, “It’s a rotten deal, the house always wins. Just sit at the table and play for all you’re worth.” Instead of one who showed him how to die.

life, suicide, the-house-always-wins

Michael, in a motel in Twentynine Palms, a gun in his hands. Not at Meredith’s, painting in an explosion of new creation. Not over on Sunset, digging through the record bins, or at Launderland separating the darks and lights. Not at the Chinese market, looking at the fish with their still-bright eyes. Not at the Vista watching an old movie. Not sketching down at Echo Park. He was in a motel room in Twentynine Palms, putting a bullet in his brain.

los-angeles, suicide