We’re all getting too smart. Our brains are just getting bigger and bigger, and the world dries up and dies when there’s too much thought and not enough heart.
AIMEE BENDERThat’s the thing with handmade items. They still have the person’s mark on them, and when you hold them, you feel less alone.
More Aimee Bender Quotes
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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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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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But the sky is interesting, it changes all the time.
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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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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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It’s such a fraught and exciting and kind of horrible time.
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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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Mom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.
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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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It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things.
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It’s a pleasure to dive into Hirshberg’s storytelling skills in American Morons.
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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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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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As a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.
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We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.
AIMEE BENDER






