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The process of writing is a little like madness, a kind of possession not altogether benign.

Joanne Harris

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Joanne Harris
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: July 3
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Madness
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I think everybody has a secret life.
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A thing named is a thing tamed.
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I am fascinated by how people eat and what it reveals about them.
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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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Places have their own characters. . . . But the people begin to look the same.
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Some things can be both real and imaginary at the same time, . . . some lies can be true, . . . broken faith may be restored.
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Online communities are an expression of loneliness.
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Anything that can be dreamed is true.
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I carried recipes in my head like maps.
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Clones fit in. Freaks stand out. Ask me which one I prefer.
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Remember, it's the winners write the history books, and the losers get the leavings.
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I don't tend to do category fiction very well. One of my problems when I was starting off was that publishers were hesitant to handle my books because they were never sure what I was going to do next.
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I speak as I must and cannot be silent.
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I think if you are an outsider then you are an outsider always.
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I'm not fond of cities: the constant activity and swarms of people.
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A little tantrum in real life seems so much bigger online.
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What is a writer of fiction but a liar with a licence?
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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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Guilleaume left La Praline with a small bag of florentines in his pocket before he had turned the corner of avenue des Francs Bourgeois I saw him stoop to offer one to the dog. A pat, a bark, a wagging of the short stubby tail. As I said, some people never have to think about giving.
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Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even its end.
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