Jeanette Winterson Quotes
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He's a curious man; a shrug of the shoulders and a wink and that's him. He's never thought it odd that his daughter cross-dresses for a living and sells second-hand purses on the side. But then, he's never thought it odd that his daughter was born with webbed feet. (p.61)
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I don't write for any group. I write to bring about a change in consciousness.
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I don't believe in happy endings.
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I had relationships with men as well as women. I wasn't choosing; I didn't think I had to.
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Ordinary professionalism and 20 years' experience can accomplish a lot, but it can't access the hidden places.
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They say that every snowflake is different. If that were true, how could the world go on? How could we ever get up off our knees? How could we ever recover from the wonder of it?
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I like to think the price I paid by being open about my private life helped.
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You play. You win. You play. You lose. You play.
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I hate the word lesbian; it tells you nothing; its only purpose is to inflame.
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No second chances at a single moment.
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You never give away your heart; you lend it from time to time. If it were not so, how could we take it back without asking?
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Choice of subject, like choice of lover, is an intimate decision.
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Life gives you enough hard knocks so it's unlikely you'll stay that sure of yourself.
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I wanted to cause trouble, but I know now it stays with you.
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Academics love to make theories about a body of work, but each book consumes the writer and is the sum of his or her world.
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My heart returns to me what I turn away. I am my own master but not always master of myself.
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I think it would be very foolish not to take the irrational seriously.
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What to say? That the end of love is a haunting. A haunting of dreams. A haunting of silence. Haunted by ghosts it is easy to become a ghost. Life ebbs. The pulse is too faint. Nothing stirs you. Some people approve of this and call it healing. It is not healing. A dead body feels no pain.
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Nobody knows anything about Shakespeare the person. It's all legend, it is all rumor.
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In my subconscious, my books were part of a single emotional journey.
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Many people feel their outer self isn't the whole self.
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My friends and the people who are close to me know what I am. And that is enough.
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Creative work is incredibly difficult, and that is where the tests lie.
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Where did love begin? What human being looked at another and saw in their face the forests and the sea? Was there a day, exhausted and weary, dragging home food, arms cut and scarred, that you saw yellow flowers and, not knowing what you did, picked them because I love you?