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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
Author
Novelist
Writer
Years
Violent
Lion
Time
Calm
Shaking
Mane
Like
Drama
Lions
Rages
Door
Autumn
Fireworks
Doors
Pockets
Deceptive
Dangerous
Rage
Roaring
Year
Leaves
Fist
Back
Golden
Fists

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The great thing about books is that you can end with a question mark.
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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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Some books you read. Some books you enjoy. But some books just swallow you up, heart and soul.
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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 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.
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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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Online communities are an expression of loneliness.
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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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If you want to know what's important to a culture, learn their language.
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Sometimes survival is the worst alternative there is
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A thing named is a thing tamed.
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I sell dreams, small comforts, sweet harmless temptations to bring down a multitude of saints crashing among the hazels and nougatines
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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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What is a writer of fiction but a liar with a licence?
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Places have their own characters. . . . But the people begin to look the same.
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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'd rather be a freak than a clone.
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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.
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I love it when my books cause controversy, when people argue violently about the ending.
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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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