The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot… — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
I wondered why it had to be so poisonous. Oleanders could live through anything, they could stand heat, drought, neglect, and put out thousands of waxy blooms. So what did they need poison for? Couldn't they just be bitter? They… — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
How could anybody confuse truth with beauty, I thought as I looked at him. Truth came with sunken eyes, bony or scarred, decayed. Its… — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
I love Derrick Brown for the surprise of one word waking up next to another. One moment tender, funny or romantic, the next, visceral,… — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
“That fucking crow-bodied thing had won. How gleeful it was now. All because he'd wanted to live, forget genius and destiny, and simply be… — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
No matter how unappealing, each of them imagines he is somehow worthy. — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
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… — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
When most people looked at Josie Tyrell, they only saw a certain collection of bones, a selection of forms filling space. But Michael saw… — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
“They can't touch us. We're the Vikings. We go into battle without armor for the flush and the blood of it.” — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
“But I knew one more thing. That people who denied who they were or where they had been were in the greatest danger.” — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
“To dare to see is to steal fire from the Gods. This is mankind's destiny, the engine which fuels us as a race. Three… — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
This is what happens when you fall in love. You're looking at a natural disaster. — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
“If I were a poet, that’s what I’d write about. People who worked in the middle of the night. Men who loaded trains, emergency… — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
“what was the point in creating something that was so futile and so precious? everything beautiful was like that. a little bit of the… — Janet Fitch Copy Share Image
