In this little night-covered world with you, I hope to find what I long for; a clue, a map, a bird flying south, and when the light comes we will get dressed together and go.
Jeanette WintersonShe was a bright disc in him that left him sun-spun. She was circular, light-turned, equinox-sprung. She was season and movement, but he had never seen her cold. In winter, her fire sank from the surface to below the surface, and warmed her great halls like the legend of the king who kept the sun in his hearth.
Jeanette WintersonWhere 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?
Jeanette WintersonPassion is sweeter split strand by strand. Divided and re-divided like
mercury then gathered up only at the last moment.
Mots clés passion
The rebellion of art is a daily rebellion against the state of living death routinely called real life.
Jeanette WintersonWallowing is sex for depressives.
Jeanette WintersonWe're a lukewarm people for all our feast days and hard work. Not much touches us, but we long to be touched. We lie awake at night willing the darkness to part and show us a vision. Our children frighten us in their intimacy, but we make sure they grow up like us. Lukewarm like us. On a night like this, hands and faces hot, we can believe that tomorrow will show us angels in jars and that the well-known woods will suddenly reveal another path. Last time we had a bonfire, a neighbour tried to pull down the boards of his house. [...] I sometimes wonder why none of us tried to stop him. I think we wanted him to do it, to do it for us. To tear down our long-houred lives and let us start again. Clean and simple with open hands.
Jeanette WintersonMots clés longing
I can't be a priest because although my heart is as loud as hers I can pretend no answering riot. I have shouted to God and the Virgin, but they have not shouted back and I'm not interested in the still small voice. Surely a god can meet passion with passion? She says he can. Then he should.
Jeanette WintersonMots clés religion
Perhaps it is true that the world is made new again every day but our minds are not. The clamp that holds me will not let me go.
Jeanette WintersonI'm always nervous about going home, just as I am nervous about rereading books that have meant a lot to me.
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