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
The most off-limits Joanne Harris quotes to discover and learn by heart
Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.
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.
A man may plant a tree for a number of reasons.
Perhaps he likes trees. Perhaps he wants shelter. Or perhaps he knows that someday he may need the firewood.
It isn't just a village. The houses aren't just places to live. Everything belongs to everybody. Everyone belongs to everyone else. Even a single person can make a difference.
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.
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.
Some people spend the whole of their lives sitting waiting for one train, only to find that they never even made it to the station.
...we do not simply get showered with Hollywood money because we happened to write a little story about wizards one day. It's not winning the lottery. It's a real job, which real people do, and they have the same real problems as other real people.
If you can still write in spite of the fact that you're not getting paid, that nobody cares about what you're writing, that nobody wants to publish it, that everybody is telling you to do something else, and you still want to and you still enjoy it and you can't stop doing it...then you're a writer.
Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even its end.
I could do with a bit more excess. From now on I'm going to be immoderate--and volatile--I shall enjoy loud music and lurid poetry. I shall be rampant.
People reveal so much of their mental processes online, simply because the psychological effect of anonymity just means that a whole raft of inhibitions are left alone when people log on.
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.
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.
I'm not fond of cities: the constant activity and swarms of people.
Guilleaume left La Praline with a small bag of florentines in his pocket;
before he had turned the corner of avenue des Francs Bourgeois I saw him stoop to offer one to the dog. A pat, a bark, a wagging of the short stubby tail. As I said, some people never have to think about giving.
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.
In my dreams I gorge on chocolates, I roll in chocolates, and their texture is not brittle but soft as flesh, like a thousand mouths on my body, devouring me in fluttering small bites. To die beneath their tender gluttony seems the culmination of every temptation I have ever known.
Places do not lose their identity, however far one travels.
It is the heart that begins to erode over time. The face in the hotel mirror seems blurred some mornings, as if by too many casual looks. By ten the sheets will be laundered, the carpet swept. The names on the hotel registers change as we pass. We leave no trace as we pass on. Ghostlike, we cast no shadow.
Garden work clears the mind.
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.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
Some things can be both real and imaginary at the same time, .
. . some lies can be true, . . . broken faith may be restored.
What is a writer of fiction but a liar with a licence?
A few hundred years ago there were no differences between magic and medicine.
Clones fit in. Freaks stand out. Ask me which one I prefer.
And so Nat stood up and joined the group, and followed, and watched, and awaited his chance as the light of Chaos lit the plain and gods and demons marched to war.
The process of writing is a little like madness, a kind of possession not altogether benign.
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.
Divination is a means of telling ourselves what we already know.
Somehow the anticipation of pain can be even more troubling, more a misery than the pain itself.
The great thing about books is that you can end with a question mark.
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.
All those moments, those memories. Everything that we are, compressed in just two or three kilos of paper — the weight of a human heart.
I'm not sure I believe in the whole 'ghost-afterlife' thing, but I think places are marked by people who have been there.
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.)
You seem to know a lot about it," she said.
"And you do subtleties." "Yeah. Like I've always wanted to destroy the Nine Worlds while committing suicide." "Well, there's no need to be rude," protested Sif.
Remember, it's the winners write the history books, and the losers get the leavings.
The dead know everything but they don't give a damn.
Gods? Don't let that impress you. Anyone can be a god if they have enough worshippers. You don't even have to have powers anymore. In my time I've seen theatre gods, gladiator gods, even storyteller gods - you people see gods everywhere. Gives you an excuse for not thinking for yourselves. God is just a word. Like Fury. like demon, Just words people use for things they don't understand. Reverse it and you get dog. It's just as appropriate.
Was it my fault that I got out of hand? --Loki
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.
This isn't the first time the world has come to an end, and it won't be the last either.
It's a feeling which tells me that any woman can be beautiful in the eyes of a man who loves her.
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!
The right circumstances sometimes happen of their own accord, slyly, without fanfare, without warning. Layman's alchemy. . . . The magic of everyday things.
The wind always brings us back to the same wall
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.
The past is an obdurate stranger that puts as many marks on us as we attempt to impose on it.