While she cut the mushrooms, she cried more than she had at the grave.
AIMEE BENDERWith 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.
More Aimee Bender Quotes
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We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.
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We’re all getting too smart. Our brains are just getting bigger and bigger, and the world dries up and dies when there’s too much thought and not enough heart.
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I am the drying meadow; you the unspoken apology; he is the fluctuating distance between mother and son.
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It’s such a fraught and exciting and kind of horrible time.
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Pouring over me, but it was a different kind, siphoned from a different, and tamer, body of water. I was her darling daughter; Joseph was her it.
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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)
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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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It seems the best work I do is when I am really allowing the unconscious to rule the page and then later I can go back and hack around and make sense of things.
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The writing I tend to think of as ‘good’ is good because it’s mysterious.
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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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That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.
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I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.
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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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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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A Dorito asks nothing of you, which is its great gift. It only asks that you are not there.
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It was a fleeting statement, one I didn’t think she’d hold on to; after all, she had birthed us alone, diapered and fed us, helped us with homework, kissed and hugged us, poured her love into us.
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Before she knew it was candles, did she think she’d done it herself? With the amazing turns of her hips.
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I didn’t mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.
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Large meadows are lovely for picnics and romping, but they are for the lighter feelings. Meadows do not make me want to write.
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It is so often surprising, who rescues you at your lowest moments.
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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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There’s a gift in your lap and it’s beautifully wrapped and it’s not your birthday.
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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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To see someone you love, in a bad setting, is one of the great barometers of gratitude.
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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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