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Nat Parson says it's the devil's mark. Nat Parson's a gobshite. Maddy was torn between a natural feeling of sacrilege and a deep admiration of anyone who dared call a parson 'gobshite.

Joanne Harris

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Joanne Harris
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: July 3
Author
Novelist
Writer
Devil
Deep
Maddy
Says
Parson
Feeling
Sacrilege
Call
Dared
Anyone
Torn
Natural
Admiration
Feelings
Mark

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I think if you are an outsider then you are an outsider always.
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Anything based on ancient texts is difficult for a modern reader to get their head around.
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A thing named is a thing tamed.
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Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even its end.
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I love it when my books cause controversy, when people argue violently about the ending.
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Change isn't always comfortable, but it is a fact of life.
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One of the things that writing has taught me is that fiction has a life of its own. Fictional places are sometimes more real than the view from our bedroom window. Fictional people can sometimes become as close to us as our loved ones.
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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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You priests. You're all the same. You think fasting helps you think about God, when anyone who can cook would tell you that fasting just makes you think about food.
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I speak as I must and cannot be silent.
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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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The process of writing is a little like madness, a kind of possession not altogether benign.
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I'm not fond of cities: the constant activity and swarms of people.
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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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Remember, it's the winners write the history books, and the losers get the leavings.
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The process of giving is without limits.
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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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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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