Jo Sinclair Quotes

American writer (1913–1995)

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Ruth Seid (July 1, 1913 – April 4, 1995) was a novelist who wrote under the pen name Jo Sinclair. She was Jewish, lesbian, and lived in the USA.

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Alternative Names: Ruth Seid

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"Listen to her," [he] said. "A voice like iron. That one will never rent or sell to them. They are more her enemy than ours, even. Remember...even an Italian has his Hitler." (chapter 3, p43)

It was Saturday again. Today he was eager to be here. Already he shared with the walls of this office the intimacy of secrets released, the wonderful freedom of shame and pain eased, even the inch of secret, the first few stumbling steps of ease. (Chapter Three, p77)

All that summer, as no white people came to rent the empty, upstairs suites of the Valenti house or the Golden house, tension had mounted in the street. Only Negroes came. (first lines)

It was night in her lovely Ballroom, where a dream was completely safe. (book 4 chapter 3)

The word Depression faded from the American air, but in her it would never fade completely, she knew that. (chapter Five, p177)

The first spring after the death is unbearable. Its inexorable, complete awakening. Its compulsive memories. Its intolerable mockery of beauty.

In the darkness, he found her and it was as if the discovery encompassed him at the same time. She was in a secret forest-place of night, where no pain could enter. His body, his lips and hands, made gleams of light by which she could read at last all the answers to hunger. (book 3 chapter 6)

Like touching an old scar, she felt again the crushing sense of responsibility, the sensation of being mysteriously punished... (book 3 chapter 6)

A beautiful thing happened...Her loneliness was gone. Even the night time was less piercing for the happiness of the day preceding it, the day that was so filled with a presence, a little living possession who changed excitingly from week to (book 2 chapter 3)

"...Do you have anything definite on which to pin your dislike? Or is it a cloak for your dislike of someone else? Or perhaps yourself?" (Chapter Five, p159)

...again, it was the urgent, wholly understanding tones of love she thought she heard, even in the whisper. Her throat felt parched, as if she had sung along with one of her records for a long time. (book 2 chapter 5)

It was as if he had an insistence, too: never to see the actual Catherine, never to need the inner figure of shy and beautiful delicacy. (book 1 chapter 7)

Liz picked a stifling evening in late summer to describe love. She yanked the word from a misty, delicately poised niche in Catherine's mind and flung it down newly expressed. The brutish meaning turned real as the smell and touch, the sounds, out of one of the childhood memories always hiding at the back of Catherine's mind. ( first lines)

The big desk was somewhat like a bridge between the doctor and him; at one end the doctor sat, and here at this end he sat, waiting for the moment when he could take a few further awkward steps upon that bridge into understanding, into reasoning. (Chapter Three, p77)

He began quietly to tell her the details of Kenny's letter, and as she listened she thought with a kind of tired and comfortable amusement that the ghosts were really catching up with her. Ralph, or her lie to herself, had kept them away for more than a year. But all ghosts had the right, sooner or later, to frighten the people they haunted. (book 5 chapter 2)