Quote

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.

Joanne Harris

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Joanne Harris
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: July 3
Author
Novelist
Writer
Eyes
Eye
Otherness
Look
Thoughtful
Looks
Wander
Much
Edge
Always
Edges
Things
Thoughts
World
Seeing

More quotes by Joanne Harris

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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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Change isn't always comfortable, but it is a fact of life.
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A little tantrum in real life seems so much bigger online.
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Places have their own characters. . . . But the people begin to look the same.
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I'm phobic about the idea of being constrained.
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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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A thing named is a thing tamed.
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I'm not fond of cities: the constant activity and swarms of people.
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Remember, it's the winners write the history books, and the losers get the leavings.
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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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As authors, we all expect criticism from time to time, and we all have our ways of coping with unfriendly reviews.
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Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even its end.
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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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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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Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.
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What is a writer of fiction but a liar with a licence?
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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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We came in the wind of the carnival. A wind of change, or promises. The merry wind, the magical wind, making March hares of everyone, tumbling blossoms and coat-tails and hats rushing towards summer in a frenzy of exuberance.
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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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