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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.

Joanne Harris

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Joanne Harris
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: July 3
Author
Novelist
Writer
Front
Indecision
Battle
Pitiful
Standing
Reduced
Saying
Shop
Evil
Shops
Woman
Chocolate
Good
Fats
Fronts

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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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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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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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If you want to know what's important to a culture, learn their language.
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But I rather thought--I mean, I heard you'd killed Balder the Fair. I never did, snapped Loki crossly. Well, no one ever proved I did. What happened to the presumption of innocence? Besides, he was supposed to be invulnerable. Was it my fault that he wasn't?
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I carried recipes in my head like maps.
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Children are knives, my mother once said. They don’t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don’t we, we clasp them until the blood flows.
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I love it when my books cause controversy, when people argue violently about the ending.
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This isn't the first time the world has come to an end, and it won't be the last either.
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Remember, it's the winners write the history books, and the losers get the leavings.
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To be closed from everything, and yet to feel, to think...This is the truth of hell, stripped of its gaudy medievalisms. This loss of contact.
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Anything that can be dreamed is true.
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Anything based on ancient texts is difficult for a modern reader to get their head around.
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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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A thing named is a thing tamed.
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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 speak as I must and cannot be silent.
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Change isn't always comfortable, but it is a fact of 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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What is a writer of fiction but a liar with a licence?
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