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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.
Joanne Harris
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Joanne Harris
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: July 3
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More quotes by Joanne Harris
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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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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Death should be a celebration. Like a birthday. I want to go up like a rocket when my time comes, and fall down in a cloud of stars, and hear everyone go: ahh!
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I love it when my books cause controversy, when people argue violently about the ending.
Joanne Harris
I don't think I've ever had a mentor. The closest thing is my friend Christopher Fowler, another writer. Chris kept me sane for a long time before I made it.
Joanne Harris
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.
Joanne Harris
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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I don't listen to music when I'm writing, but I often do when I'm reworking, editing or when I need to relax.
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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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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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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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I think everybody has a secret life.
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Remember, it's the winners write the history books, and the losers get the leavings.
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What is a writer of fiction but a liar with a licence?
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I'm phobic about the idea of being constrained.
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I carried recipes in my head like maps.
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Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even its end.
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Online communities are an expression of loneliness.
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I can write absolutely anywhere. All I need is a laptop.
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Anything based on ancient texts is difficult for a modern reader to get their head around.
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