When the light at Vernon turned green, we stepped into the street and George grabbed my hand and the ghosts of our younger selves crossed with us.
AIMEE BENDERLight is good company, when alone; I took my comfort where I found it, and the warmest yellow bulb in the living-room lamp had become a kind of radiant babysitter all its own.
More Aimee Bender Quotes
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When language is treated beautifully and interestingly, it can feel good for the body: It’s nourishing; it’s rejuvenating.
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My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.
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It’s a pleasure to dive into Hirshberg’s storytelling skills in American Morons.
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Light is good company, when alone; I took my comfort where I found it, and the warmest yellow bulb in the living-room lamp had become a kind of radiant babysitter all its own.
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I like birthday cake. It’s so symbolic. It’s a tempting symbol to load with something more complicated than just ‘Happy birthday!’ because it’s this emblem of childhood and a happy day.
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Language is the ticket to plot and character, after all, because both are built out of language.
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I could feel the tears beginning to collect in my throat again, but I pushed them apart, away from each other. Tears are only a threat in groups.
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The writing I tend to think of as ‘good’ is good because it’s mysterious.
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Glen Hirshberg’s stories are haunting, absolutely, but not only because of the content.
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I want to be violated by insight.
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I admired that stride; it was like he folded space in two with it.
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He was also removing all traces of any tiny leftover parts, and suddenly a ritual which I’d always found incestuous and gross seemed to me more like a desperate act on Joseph’s part to get out, to leave, to extract every little last remnant and bring it into open air.
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You try, you seem totally nuts, you go underground.
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There’s a gift in your lap and it’s beautifully wrapped and it’s not your birthday.
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Sometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children…
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That at the same time of this very intimate act of concentrating so carefully on the details of our mother’s palm and fingertips.
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I felt the crumpled paper that had taken the place of my lungs expand as if released from a fist.
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I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.
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I have had with novel writing, and I have put to bed big chunks of work that just didn’t sustain my interest.
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I knew if I ate anything of hers again, it would lkely tell me the same message: help me,
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Kissing George was a little like rolling in caramel after spending years surviving off rice sticks.
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My lover is experiencing reverse evolution.
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While she cut the mushrooms, she cried more than she had at the grave.
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But what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think?
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And the warmth of the music inside her, did she believe, for even one glorious second, that her passion had arrived?
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and I get refill number three or four and the wine is making my bones loose and it’s giving my hair a red sheen and my breasts are blooming and my eyes feel sultry and wise and the dress is water.
AIMEE BENDER