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 believe in happy endings.
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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 had relationships with men as well as women. I wasn't choosing; I didn't think I had to.
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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 hate the word lesbian; it tells you nothing; its only purpose is to inflame.
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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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I think it would be very foolish not to take the irrational seriously.
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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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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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I wanted to cause trouble, but I know now it stays with you.
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No second chances at a single moment.
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In my subconscious, my books were part of a single emotional journey.
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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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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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Every journey conceals another journey within its lines: the path not taken and the forgotten angle.
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Creative work is incredibly difficult, and that is where the tests lie.
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Choice of subject, like choice of lover, is an intimate decision.
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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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My friends and the people who are close to me know what I am. And that is enough.
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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?
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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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Nobody knows anything about Shakespeare the person. It's all legend, it is all rumor.