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.
AIMEE BENDERMom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.
More Aimee Bender Quotes
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Kissing George was a little like rolling in caramel after spending years surviving off rice sticks.
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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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It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things.
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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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I peeled the skin off a grape in slippery little triangles, and I understood then that I would be undressing every item of food I could because my clothes would be staying on.
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If everything kept to its normal progression, we would live with the sadness-cry and then walk-but what really breaks us cleanest are the losses that happen out of order.
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But I loved George in part because he believed me; because if I stood in a cold, plain room and yelled FIRE, he would walk over and ask me why.
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Not getting bored of my own story and/or character is one of the main struggles.
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With my hand in his, I looked at all the apartment buildings with rushes of love, peering in the wide streetside windows that revealed living rooms painted in dark burgandies and matte reds.
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The stories themselves haunt, they stick around, they linger, inhabiting a little corner of the reader’s brain and resurfacing to evoke mystery or sadness or longing.
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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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This is why everyone who eats a Whopper leaves a little more depressed than they were when they came in. Nobody cooked that burger.
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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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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.
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I am not happy, help me — like a message in a bottle sent in each meal to the eater, and I got it. I got the message.
AIMEE BENDER