Quote

In the heat of her hands I thought, This is the campfire that mocks the sun. This place will warm me, feed me and care for me. I will hold on to this pulse against other rhythms. The world will come and go in the tide of a day but here is her hand with my future in its palm.

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
Hands
Heat
Campfire
Thought
Rhythm
Rhythms
Care
Warm
Palm
Come
Sun
Tide
World
Hold
Palms
Hand
Pulse
Future
Tides
Place
Feed
Mocks

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The body shuts down when it has too much to bear goes its own way quietly inside, waiting for a better time, leaving you numb and half alive.
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I hate the word lesbian it tells you nothing its only purpose is to inflame.
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In the space between chaos and shape there was another chance.
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I like to think the price I paid by being open about my private life helped.
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Reading things that are relevant to the facts of your life is of limited value. The facts are, after all, only the facts, and the yearning passionate part of you will not be met there. That is why reading ourselves as a fiction as well as fact is so liberating. The wider we read the freer we become.
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Love ... Just Nature's way of getting one person to pay the bills for another person.
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We [fiction writers] are much more of a maze than we are a motorway. Things are always in flux, they're always in movement, they're always twisting back on each other. I think the straight line is such a lie.
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I don't want to conquer you I just want to climb you.
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Unconditional love is what a child should expect from a parent even though it rarely works out that way.
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I used to think marriage was a plate-glass window just begging for a brick.
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It’s better to think of my life like that— part miracle, part madness. It’s better if I accept that I can’t control any of the things that matter. My life is a trail of shipwrecks and set-sails. There are no arrivals, no destinations there are only sandbanks and shipwreck then another boat, another tide.
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I live alone, with cats, books, pictures, fresh vegetables to cook, the garden, the hens to feed.
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Know thyself,’ said Socrates. Know thyself,’ said Sappho, ‘and make sure that the Church never finds out.
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That is what literature offers—a language powerful enough to say how it is. It isn't a hiding place. It is a finding place.
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Why is the mind incapable of deciding its own subject matter? Why when we desperately want to think of one thing to we invariably think of another?
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Don’t you, when strangers and friends come to call, straighten the cushions, kick the books under the bed and put away the letter you were writing? How many of us want any of us to see us as we really are? Isn’t the mirror hostile enough?
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Academics love to make theories about a body of work, but each book consumes the writer and is the sum of his or her world.
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Her butler opened it for her. His name was Boredom. She said, 'Boredom, fetch me a plaything.' He said 'Very good ma'am,' and putting on his white gloves so that fingerprints would not show he tapped at my heart and I thought he said his name was Love.
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Always in my books, I like to throw that rogue element into a stable situation and then see what happens.
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I felt like a thief with a bagful of stolen glances.
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