That’s the thing with handmade items. They still have the person’s mark on them, and when you hold them, you feel less alone.
AIMEE BENDERIt’s a pleasure to dive into Hirshberg’s storytelling skills in American Morons.
More Aimee Bender Quotes
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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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It’s a pleasure to dive into Hirshberg’s storytelling skills in American Morons.
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While she cut the mushrooms, she cried more than she had at the grave.
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I was right at the edge of their circle, like the tail of a Q…
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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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Sometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children…
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You try, you seem totally nuts, you go underground.
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My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.
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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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She is the first gesture that creates a quiet that is full enough to make the baby sleep. My genes, my love, are rubber bands and rope; make yourself a structure you can live inside. Amen.
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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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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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The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
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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 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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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.
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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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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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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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That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.
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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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You’re the perfect girl’, he said, rubbing his chin. ‘You expect nothing.
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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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My lover is experiencing reverse evolution.
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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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The writing I tend to think of as ‘good’ is good because it’s mysterious.
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