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“We have been careless with our pie repertoire. The demise of apple-pear pie with figs and saffron and orengeado pies are tragic losses.”
― Janet Clarkson, Pie: A Global History

“The fig tree grows its flowers strangely inside out, concealed within the soft interior of the fruit. Erszébet imagines the fig's hidden fairy weight of seeds, grown in sweetness that is also a darkness. Like treasure in a cave.”
― Jody Shields, The Fig Eater

“He stands on the stone table and selects a large fig, bites into the skin, then opens it with his fingers. He thinks of a woman's sex, ancient and eternal, no young girl would have such gritty sweetness. Was this not perhaps the fruit that got Adam and Eve thrown out of Eden? Who would want to give up an unblemished state of immortality for the insipid apple?”
― Achmat Dangor, Bitter Fruit

“And I think of Emily Dickinson, and my favorite poem about death, and the line that reads "I could not see to see." This is the line Ms. Sylvia copied onto the board in her beautiful cursive, which spirals away like blindweed tendrils, and then she asked the class what it might mean. I didn't even have to think about it. I just knew. To see to see, which is not exactly what Dickinson wrote, means knowing how to look. How to look to understand. How to look without your eyes. And to die, is not to see at all. Of course, I didn't actually say this out loud.”
― Sarah Elizabeth Schrantz

“I don't know what I ate, but I felt immensely better after the first mouthful. It occurred to me that my vision of the fig-tree and all the fat figs that withered and fell to earth might well have arisen from the profound void of an empty stomach.”
― Sylvia Plath

“A gypsy girl peeled a fresh green fig with her long and filthy red-lacquered fingernails.”
― Josef Winkler, Natura morta

“bring me fruit
love, like craters of fig”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“This morning, my grandmother stretched out her hand to feel the air, then raised her head to the sky and said, “It's fig harvest time.â€� She sat silently for the rest of the day. My friend, it seems that we all yearn for even the smallest details and simplest things that were once a part of our lives. Like the fig trees and the day of their harvest. Do you remember the day my mother made me cut a large pot filled with figs to make jam for us, and you came to help me? Do you remember the secrets and stories we shared over that pot of figs? And do you remember helping my grandmother knead the cookie dough afterwards? The taste of laughter, the smell of the house, and the warmth of our hearts as we dipped those cookies in the fig jam. My friend, will we ever make jam and cookies together again? Or will we continue to long for our memories, loved ones, friends, and fig trees?
letters in wartime”
― Sara Ahmed