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Are we all living like this? Two lives, the ideal outer life and the inner imaginative life where we keep our secrets?

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
Lives
Living
Imaginative
Keep
Outer
Two
Secrets
Life
Ideal
Like
Ideals
Inner
Secret

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Age is information failure. The body loses fluency.
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Our broken society is not born out of the triumph of the individual, but out of his effacement. He vanishes, she vanishes, ask them who they are and they will offer you a wallet or a child.
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I have a head for heights it's true, but no stomach for the depths. Strange then to have plumbed so many.
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Life was a pre-death experience.
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I lay there, stretched out, looking at the one star visible through the tiny window of the room. Only connect. How can you do that when the connections are broken?
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History is not a suicide note -- it is a record of our survival.
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I am good at walking away. Rejection teaches you how to reject.
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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.
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There are voices and they must be heard.
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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.
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I felt like a thief with a bagful of stolen glances.
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The rebellion of art is a daily rebellion against the state of living death routinely called real life.
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What you risk reveals what you value.
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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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The tamer my love, the farther away it is from love. In fierceness, in heat, in longing, in risk, I find something of love's nature. In my desire for you, I burn at the right temperature to walk through love's fire. So when you ask me why I cannot love you more calmly, I answer that to love you calmly is not to love you at all.
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We shall all die, and our lives will be irrelevant then.
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I am much better at saying how I feel when I no longer feel it.
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I didn’t want to tell the story of myself, but someone I called myself. If you read yourself as fiction, it’s rather more liberating than reading yourself as fact.
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You play, you win, you play, you lose. You play. It’s the playing that’s irresistible. Dicing from one year to the next with the things you love, what you risk reveals what you value.
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