Quotes from Aimee Bender

She is walking around the living room naked and

After the incident in the ER, Ino longer wanted to advertise my experience to anyone. You try, you seem totally nuts, you go underground. There's a kind of show a kid can do, for a parent – a show of pain, to try to announce something, and in my crying, in the desperate, blabbering, awful mouth-clawing, I had hoped to get something across. Had it come across, any of it? Nope.

We end up kissing her for an hour, and her lips are so soft they are almost like a joke.

YOU'RE IN MY MOUTH, I said. GET OUT OF MY MOUTH.

Il mondo può anche chiederti di partecipare, ma la decisione di accettare la proposta viene presa di giorno in giorno.

On the drive home, she sat in the backseat, as she did on occasion. He said it was to protect her from more dangerous car accidents; she liked thinking for a moment that he was her chauffeur, that she had reached a state of adult richness where you did nothing for yourself anymore and returned to infancy.

She was tired these days because she was having job trouble too; her trouble meant she did not know how she could be useful in her life. Dad's job trouble was he had too much to do with his life. Sometimes I just wanted them to even it out but I couldn't think of how.

Nothing...They're from nothing,' he said. 'They came in the book...I found the book and inside were these flowers...They were in the book when I bought it... I bought it used...Because they meant something. 'To someone else.' 'To someone.

I pushed them apart, away from each other. Tears are only a threat in groups.

But rock, of course, is many colors. The distinction is subtle, but it is not just one plain grey, that I can promise...I spent five hours one afternoon just staring at a rock trying to see into its color scheme.

The phone is about the same size as a cigarette pack. It's no surprise to me that the traditional cigarette lighter in many cars has turned into the space we use to recharge our phones. They are kin. The phone, like the cigarette, lets the texter/ former smoker drop out of any social interaction for a second to get a break and make a little love to the beautiful object. We need something, people. We can't live propless.

She bops around really energetically but she's also still. Like she's moving her torso but her feet don't move, and then sometimes she'll take one step, and it feels like a thesis statement. Like it is a topic sentence about her butt.

When she came back inside, she was gripping a yogurt cup someone had thrown near our side strip of garden. "Plastic doesn't cycle." She shrugged off her coat. "Right? We recycle it, but it can't do anything on its own, and all it can ever do is be itself again. It is the worst kind of reincarnation. Lame! That is so lame! And it's everywhere!" she cried, going to the bathroom to splash water on her face.

Though loss did not pass from one person to another like a baton; it just formed a bigger and bigger pool of carriers.

Now she and the widow had something in common, though loss did not pass from one person to another like a baton. It just formed a bigger and bigger pool of carriers. And she thought, scratching the coarseness of the horses's mane, it did not leave, once lodged, did it? It simply changed form, and asked repeatedly for attention and care as each year revealed a new knot to cry out and consider, smaller, sure, but never gone...Out of my body, these beautiful monsters.

God or the mysterious bounty of the world...

At lunch you order steamed vegetables because you're remembering that you have a heart too. You feel humbled by your heart, it works so hard. You want to thank it. You give your heart a little pat

It is all about numbers. It is all about sequence. It's the mathematic logic of being alive. If everything kept to its normal progression, we would live with the sadness—cry and then walk—but what really breaks us the cleanest are the losses that happen out of order.

I peed, then washed my hands with shampoo. The soap was in the soap dish and looked, at that moment, the size of a piece of soap.

It feels like Salinger wrote The Catcher in the Rye in a day, and that incredible feeling of ease inspires writing. Inspires the pursuit of voice. Not his voice. My voice. Your voice.

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He said he hated talking and just wanted to look into my eyes and tell me things that way. I let him and it made my skin lift, the things in his look.

Until that moment, I'd been living in my own little universe of good-luck hell.

There was the same old dread, and there was the same old hope