Quote

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

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A little tantrum in real life seems so much bigger online.
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The great thing about books is that you can end with a question mark.
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If you can still write in spite of the fact that you're not getting paid, that nobody cares about what you're writing, that nobody wants to publish it, that everybody is telling you to do something else, and you still want to and you still enjoy it and you can't stop doing it...then you're a writer.
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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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Places have their own characters. . . . But the people begin to look the same.
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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'm phobic about the idea of being constrained.
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Online communities are an expression of loneliness.
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Remember, it's the winners write the history books, and the losers get the leavings.
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The dead know everything but they don't give a damn.
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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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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 love it when my books cause controversy, when people argue violently about the ending.
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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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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 carried recipes in my head like maps.
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I think everybody has a secret life.
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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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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'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.
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