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When she bleeds the smells I know change colour. There is iron in her soul on those days. She smells like a gun.
Jeanette Winterson
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Jeanette Winterson
Age: 67
Born: 1957
Born: August 27
Author
Film Producer
Journalist
Novelist
Prosaist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Writer
Manchester
England
Soul
Bleeds
Like
Smells
Colour
Iron
Gun
Smell
Days
Change
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There are only three possible endings -aren't there? - to any story: revenge, tragedy or forgiveness. That's it. All stories end like that.
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Hopeless heart that thrives on paradox that longs for the beloved and is secretly relieved when the beloved is not there.
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I dreamed I was a single moment in a single day. A note struck and vanished. A sounding. A reckoning. Gone.
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Even death after a long illness is without warning. The moment you had prepared for so carefully took you by storm. The troops broke through the window and snatched the body and the body is gone. ... Death reduces us to the baffled logic of a small child. If yesterday why not today?
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When I was born, my father wanted to drown me, but my mother persuaded him to let me live in disguise, to see if I could bring any wealth to the household.
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Infatuation.First Love.Lust.My passion can be explained away.But this is sure: Whatever she touches, she reveals
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Six books… my mother didn’t want books falling into my hands. It never occurred to her that I fell into the books – that I put myself inside them for safe keeping.
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Y'know, Nature's unpredictable -- that's why we had to tame her. Maybe we went too far, but in principle we made the right decision.
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Myths hook and bind the mind because at the same time they set the mind free: they explain the universe while allowing the universe to go on being unexplained and we seem to need this even now, in our twentieth-century grandeur.
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I can't catch her by copying her, I can't draw her with a borrowed stencil. She is all the things a lover should be and quite a few a lover should not. Pin her down? She's not a butterfly. I'm not a wrestler. She's not a target. I'm not a gun. Tell you what she is? She's not Lot no. 27 and I'm not one to brag.
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I think heterosexuality and homosexuality are a kind of psychosis, and the truth is somewhere in the middle.
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Writing objects to the lie that life is small. Writing is a cell of energy. Writing defines itself. Writing draws its viewer in for longer than an instant. Writing exhibits boldness. Writing restores power to exalt, unnerve, shock, and transform us. Writing does not imitate life, it anticipates life.
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Memoir ... satisfies our need for gossip and intimacy, for testimony and confessional, and in this world of spin, offers a truthful account of what it means to succeed or fail, to love and lose, to break your heart and mend it again.
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She was fragile, gentle, wide awake in a sleeping world.
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How many of us want any of us to see us as we really are?
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Everyone who tells a story tells it differently, just to remind us that everybody sees it differently.
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I had huge ambition for literature. I don't see the point of doing anything if you don't have ambition for it.
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I don't want to conquer you I just want to climb you.
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