Quote

I like literature that you respond to in some way. You laugh, you cry, you turn the light on - that's great, it's eliciting a response by proxy.

Joanne Harris

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Joanne Harris
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: July 3
Author
Novelist
Writer
Literature
Eliciting
Turns
Proxy
Light
Respond
Great
Response
Way
Cry
Like
Laugh
Laughing
Turn

More quotes by Joanne Harris

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I think if you are an outsider then you are an outsider always.
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If you want to know what's important to a culture, learn their language.
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The process of writing is a little like madness, a kind of possession not altogether benign.
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Nat Parson says it's the devil's mark. Nat Parson's a gobshite. Maddy was torn between a natural feeling of sacrilege and a deep admiration of anyone who dared call a parson 'gobshite.
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Sheep are not the docile, pleasant creatures of the pastoral idyll. Any countryman will tell you that. They are sly, occasionally vicious, pathologically stupid. The lenient shepherd may find his flock unruly, definant. I cannot afford to be lenient.
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I can write absolutely anywhere. All I need is a laptop.
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As authors, we all expect criticism from time to time, and we all have our ways of coping with unfriendly reviews.
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Sometimes survival is the worst alternative there is
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Everything comes home, my mother used to say every word spoken, every shadow cast, every footprint in the sand. It can't be helped it's part of what makes us who we are.
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Some books you read. Some books you enjoy. But some books just swallow you up, heart and soul.
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Places have their own characters. . . . But the people begin to look the same.
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The battle of good and evil reduced to a fat woman standing in front of a chocolate shop, saying, Will I? Won’t I? in pitiful indecision.
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I let it go. It's like swimming against the current. It exhausts you. After a while, whoever you are, you just have to let go, and the river brings you home.
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Children are knives, my mother once said. They don’t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don’t we, we clasp them until the blood flows.
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We came in the wind of the carnival. A wind of change, or promises. The merry wind, the magical wind, making March hares of everyone, tumbling blossoms and coat-tails and hats rushing towards summer in a frenzy of exuberance.
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It isn't just a village. The houses aren't just places to live. Everything belongs to everybody. Everyone belongs to everyone else. Even a single person can make a difference.
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I've never been very good at leaving things behind. I tried, but I have always left fragments of myself there too, like seeds awaiting their chance to grow.
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The dead know everything but they don't give a damn.
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Their love was something which coloured the air between them like sunlight.
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The process of giving is without limits.
Joanne Harris