Janet Fitch
Janet Fitch
Janet Fitch is most famously known as the author of the Oprah's Book Club novel White Oleander, which became a film in 2002. She is a graduate of Reed College, located in Portland, Oregon...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionAuthor
Date of Birth9 November 1955
CountryUnited States of America
home
We have no home, she told me. I am your home.
want what-you-want there-is-no-god
There is no God, there is only what you want.
confused coffee hair
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.
laughter night smell
The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.
notebook writing night
She was sitting cross-legged on her bed in her white kimono, writing in a notebook with an ink pen she dipped in a bottle. 'Never let a man stay the night,' she told me. 'Dawn has a way of casting a pall on any night magic.' The night magic sounded lovely. Someday I would have lovers and write a poem after.
dream hangover debt
Love's an illusion. It's a dream you wake up from with an enormous hangover and net credit debt. I'd rather have cash.
there-is-no-god ifs
And if there is no god? You act as if there is, and it's the same thing.
daughter mother home
You were my home, Mother. I had no home but you
happy-birthday party cake
The cake had a trick candle that wouldn't go out, so I didn't get my wish. Which was just that it would always be like this, that my life could be a party just for me.
sad laughed
She laughed so easily when she was happy. But also when she was sad.
beautiful feet clothes
She was a beautiful woman dragging a crippled foot and I was that foot. I was bricks sewn into the hem of her clothes, I was a steel dress
numbness emptiness detachment
She’s never where she is,' I said. 'She’s only inside her head.
girl mother said
she’s not as pretty as you,” I said “But she’s a simpler girl,” my mother whispered.
kids people trying
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.