It is all about numbers. It is all about sequence. It’s the mathematical logic of being alive.
AIMEE BENDERIt is all about numbers. It is all about sequence. It’s the mathematical logic of being alive.
AIMEE BENDERWhile she cut the mushrooms, she cried more than she had at the grave.
AIMEE BENDERSometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children…
AIMEE BENDERA Dorito asks nothing of you, which is its great gift. It only asks that you are not there.
AIMEE BENDERI’m obsessed with adolescence. I love to write about people in their 20s.
AIMEE BENDERThe 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.
AIMEE BENDERListen. 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.
AIMEE BENDERMany 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.
AIMEE BENDERThe most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.
AIMEE BENDERAs a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.
AIMEE BENDERMy genes, my love, are rubber bands and rope; make yourself a structure you can live inside. Amen.” – Aimee Bender (Willful Creatures: Stories)
AIMEE BENDERTo see someone you love, in a bad setting, is one of the great barometers of gratitude.
AIMEE BENDERI didn’t mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.
AIMEE BENDERIt is so often surprising, who rescues you at your lowest moments.
AIMEE BENDERIf 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.
AIMEE BENDERWhen 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 BENDER