I knew if I ate anything of hers again, it would lkely tell me the same message: help me,
AIMEE BENDERI didn’t mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.
More Aimee Bender Quotes
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Not getting bored of my own story and/or character is one of the main struggles.
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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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Listen. Look. Desire is a house. Desire needs closed space. Desire runs out of doors or windows, or slats or pinpricks, it can’t fit under the sky, too large. Close the doors. Close the windows.
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Mom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.
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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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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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The most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.
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Glen Hirshberg’s stories are haunting, absolutely, but not only because of the content.
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Kissing George was a little like rolling in caramel after spending years surviving off rice sticks.
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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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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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It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things.
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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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As a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.
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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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My genes, my love, are rubber bands and rope; make yourself a structure you can live inside. Amen.” – Aimee Bender (Willful Creatures: Stories)
AIMEE BENDER -
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.
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It was like we were exchanging codes, on how to be a father and a daughter, like we’d read about it in a manual, translated from another language, and were doing our best with what we could understand.
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Many kids, it seemed, would find out that their parents were flawed, messed-up people later in life, and I didn’t appreciate getting to know it all so strong and early.
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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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That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.
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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 don’t think so, I don’t agree. The most unbearable thing I think by far, she said, is hope.
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I was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.
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When language is treated beautifully and interestingly, it can feel good for the body: It’s nourishing; it’s rejuvenating.
AIMEE BENDER