Kissing George was a little like rolling in caramel after spending years surviving off rice sticks.
AIMEE BENDERThis is why everyone who eats a Whopper leaves a little more depressed than they were when they came in. Nobody cooked that burger.
More Aimee Bender Quotes
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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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As a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.
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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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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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To see someone you love, in a bad setting, is one of the great barometers of gratitude.
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Sometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children…
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I was right at the edge of their circle, like the tail of a Q…
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I was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.
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You feel wonderful, you feel like somebody knows you’re alive, you feel fear because it could be a bomb, because you think you’re that important.
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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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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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Mom loved my brother more. Not that she didn’t love me – I felt the wash of her love every day.
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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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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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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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While she cut the mushrooms, she cried more than she had at the grave.
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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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That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.
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You’re the perfect girl’, he said, rubbing his chin. ‘You expect nothing.
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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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It is all about numbers. It is all about sequence. It’s the mathematical logic of being alive.
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Not getting bored of my own story and/or character is one of the main struggles.
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Mom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.
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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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The writing I tend to think of as ‘good’ is good because it’s mysterious.
AIMEE BENDER