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Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

Joanne Harris

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Joanne Harris
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: July 3
Author
Novelist
Writer
Bitter
Sweet
Alive
Happiness
Tortuous
Simple
Bittersweet
Heart
Chocolate
Glass
Glasses

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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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If you want something you can have it, but you have to do some work. It's the ethic my mother brought me up with.
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A little tantrum in real life seems so much bigger online.
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And so Nat stood up and joined the group, and followed, and watched, and awaited his chance as the light of Chaos lit the plain and gods and demons marched to war.
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I'm phobic about the idea of being constrained.
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I think everybody has a secret life.
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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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Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even its end.
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Sometimes survival is the worst alternative there is
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What is a writer of fiction but a liar with a licence?
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You don't write because someone sets assignments! You write because you need to write, or because you hope someone will listen or because writing will mend something broken inside you or bring something back to life.
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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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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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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.)
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Clones fit in. Freaks stand out. Ask me which one I prefer.
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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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Our lives are like these things I make. Turn 'em, build 'em, bake 'em in fire. That's what you've been, son. Baked and fired. But a pot don't have the right to choose whether he be for water, wine, or just left empty. You have, son. You have.
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I love it when my books cause controversy, when people argue violently about the ending.
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Their love was something which coloured the air between them like sunlight.
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I carried recipes in my head like maps.
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