Earth is ancient now, but all knowledge is stored up in her. She keeps a record of everything that has happened since time began. Of time before time, she says little, and in a language that no one has yet understood. Through time, her secret codes have gradually been broken. Her mud and lava is a message from the past.
Of time to come, she says much, but who listens?
Tags: nature environmentalism earth geology
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.
Jeanette WintersonTags: writing
Naming is a difficult and timeconsuming process; it concerns essences, and it means power. But on the wild nights who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name.
Jeanette WintersonThere it is; the light across the water. Your story. Mine. His. It has to be seen to be believed. And it has to be heard. In the endless babble of narrative, in spite of the daily noise, the story waits to be heard.
Some people say that the best stories have no words. They weren't brought up to Lighthousekeeping. It is true that words drop away, and that the important things are often left unsaid. The important things are learned in faces, in gestures, not in our locked tongues. The true things are too big or too small, or in any case is always the wrong size to fit in the template called language.
Her butler opened it for her. His name was Boredom. She said, 'Boredom, fetch me a plaything.' He said 'Very good ma'am,' and putting on his white gloves so that fingerprints would not show he tapped at my heart and I thought he said his name was Love.
Jeanette WintersonPerhaps all romance is like that; not a contract between equal parties but an explosion of dreams and desires that can find no outlet in everyday life. Only a drama will do and while the fireworks last the sky is a different colour.
Jeanette WintersonTo me, these days will never end. I am always there, in that room with her,
or if not I, the imprint of myself - my fossil-love
Woolf wanted to say dangerous things in Orlando but she did not want to say them in the missionary position.
Jeanette WintersonI dreamed I was a single moment in a single day.
A note struck and vanished. A sounding. A reckoning. Gone.
Tags: dreams
Why is the measure of love loss?
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