The most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.
AIMEE BENDERI was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.
More Aimee Bender Quotes
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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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Glen Hirshberg’s stories are haunting, absolutely, but not only because of the content.
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Sometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children…
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The 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.
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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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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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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 want to be violated by insight.
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I was right at the edge of their circle, like the tail of a Q…
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My lover is experiencing reverse evolution.
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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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It’s a pleasure to dive into Hirshberg’s storytelling skills in American Morons.
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Mom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.
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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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But what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think?
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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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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 is all about numbers. It is all about sequence. It’s the mathematical logic of being alive.
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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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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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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.
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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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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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I admired that stride; it was like he folded space in two with it.
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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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As soon as you laugh from nerves or make a joke or say something just to say something or get all involved with the bushes, then you blow open a window in your house of desire and it can’t heat up as well. Cold draft comes in.
AIMEE BENDER