Quote

What is it that you contain? The Dead. Time. Light patterns of millennia. The expanding universe opening in your gut. Are your twenty-three feet of intestines loaded with stars?

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
Light
Twenties
Time
Patterns
Intestines
Opening
Millennia
Dead
Loaded
Feet
Contain
Stars
Expanding
Universe
Guts
Three
Twenty

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If you think about something for long enough,' she explained, `more than likely, that thing will happen.' She tapped her head. `It's all in the mind.
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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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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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The curious are always in some danger. If you are curious you might never come home.
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Do all lovers feel helpless and valiant in the presence of the beloved? Helpless because the need to roll over like a pet dog is never far away. Valiant because you know you would slay a dragon with a pocket knife if you had to.
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A bridge is a meeting place . . . a possibility, a metaphor.
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Art is a foreign city, and we deceive ourselves when we think it familiar. We have to recognize that the language of art, all art, is not our mother tongue.
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Age is information failure. The body loses fluency.
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I think we are worlds compressed into human form.
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Of course, people will laugh at you, but people laugh at a great many things so there is no need to take it personally.
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I fell into the books, and left myself there for safekeeping.
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Only a fool tries to reconstruct a bunch of grapes from a bottle of wine.
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He doubted her. You must never doubt the one you love. But they might not be telling the truth. Never mind that. You tell them the truth. What do you mean? You can't be another person's honesty, child, but you can be your own. So what should I say? When? When I love someone? You should say it.
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I have no idea what happens next.
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I keep myself locked as a box when it matters, and broken open when it doesn't matter at all.
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I’m not club-able, you see. I don’t like literary parties and literary gatherings and literary identities. I’d hate to join anything, however loosely.
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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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