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Drunkeness, she told us in a rare moment of confidence, is a sin against the fruit, the tree, the wine itself. Wine, distilled and nurtured from bud into fruit it deserves reverance. Joy. Gentleness. (Page 194.)

Joanne Harris

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Joanne Harris
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: July 3
Author
Novelist
Writer
Page
Joy
Told
Fruit
Distilled
Moment
Pages
Nurtured
Moments
Wine
Bud
Deserve
Gentleness
Confidence
Deserves
Sin
Rare
Tree

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But I rather thought--I mean, I heard you'd killed Balder the Fair. I never did, snapped Loki crossly. Well, no one ever proved I did. What happened to the presumption of innocence? Besides, he was supposed to be invulnerable. Was it my fault that he wasn't?
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Anything based on ancient texts is difficult for a modern reader to get their head around.
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Change isn't always comfortable, but it is a fact of life.
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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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The right circumstances sometimes happen of their own accord, slyly, without fanfare, without warning. Layman's alchemy. . . . The magic of everyday things.
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I'm phobic about the idea of being constrained.
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I think if you are an outsider then you are an outsider always.
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Clones fit in. Freaks stand out. Ask me which one I prefer.
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The dead know everything but they don't give a damn.
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Online communities are an expression of loneliness.
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I like autumn. The drama of it the golden lion roaring through the back door of the year, shaking its mane of leaves. A dangerous time of violent rages and deceptive calm, of fireworks in the pockets and conkers in the fist.
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People reveal so much of their mental processes online, simply because the psychological effect of anonymity just means that a whole raft of inhibitions are left alone when people log on.
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The process of writing is a little like madness, a kind of possession not altogether benign.
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She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world.
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I can write absolutely anywhere. All I need is a laptop.
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I think everybody has a secret life.
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I'd rather be a freak than a clone.
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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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