My genes, my love, are rubber bands and rope; make yourself a structure you can live inside. Amen.” – Aimee Bender (Willful Creatures: Stories)
AIMEE BENDERI didn’t mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.
More Aimee Bender Quotes
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With 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.
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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 didn’t mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.
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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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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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He was also removing all traces of any tiny leftover parts, and suddenly a ritual which I’d always found incestuous and gross seemed to me more like a desperate act on Joseph’s part to get out, to leave, to extract every little last remnant and bring it into open air.
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I knew if I ate anything of hers again, it would lkely tell me the same message: help me,
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It’s such a fraught and exciting and kind of horrible time.
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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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That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.
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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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and I get refill number three or four and the wine is making my bones loose and it’s giving my hair a red sheen and my breasts are blooming and my eyes feel sultry and wise and the dress is water.
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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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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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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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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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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 the drying meadow; you the unspoken apology; he is the fluctuating distance between mother and son.
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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.
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Mom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.
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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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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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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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It is so often surprising, who rescues you at your lowest moments.
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When language is treated beautifully and interestingly, it can feel good for the body: It’s nourishing; it’s rejuvenating.
AIMEE BENDER