Quotes from Joanne Harris

But I have always been different. Perhaps that's why I find it easier to cross the narrow boundaries between one tribe and the next. To belong so often means to exclude; to think in terms of us and them – two little words that, juxtaposed, so often lead to conflict.

we have the uncanny knack of focusing on difference; as if excluding others could make our sense of identity stronger. And yet, in all my travels, I have found that people are mostly the same everywhere.

And if I never have a veil, or a golden ring on my hand, I will still have you, my love, and that will be enough for me. Sleep well, love, and dream of me. And know that, if I were to live for a thousand years, there would still not be enough nights in which to dream of you.

Azok, akik szerint a szavaknak nincs hatalmuk, nincsenek tisztában a szavak természetével. A jól irányzott szavak véget vethetnek egy uralkodó rendszernek, vallást alapíthatnak vagy háborút indíthatnak. A szavak a hazugságok pásztorai, sorainkból a legjobbakat máglyára küldhetik.

At five in the morning the Loire is still and sumptuous with mist. The water is beautiful at that time of the day, cool and magically pale, the sandbanks rising like lost continents. The water smells of night, and here and there a spray of new sunlight makes mica shadows on the surface.

At17, balanced on that precarious walkway between adolescence and adulthood, the world is a crazy obstacle course paved one day with broken glass, the next with apple blossom.

Never trust a ruminant.

Beware, Morgane . You thought I wasn't dangerous? That chocolate was too sweet, too soft to rival your ink and your needles? Chocolate is an ancient art. It comes from very far away. And under the softness, the sweetness- it waits. And it is bitter.

Because art is like love. It goes feral if you keep it to yourself. Art is made to be given away, otherwise, it just rots.

Datemi del romantico, se vi va. Ma io credo nel crimine perfetto. Come il vero amore, è solo questione di tempo e pazienza.

L'ho lasciata fare. Non ho detto che sarebbe andato tutto bene. Non ho fatto lo sforzo di consolarla. A volte è meglio lasciare le cose come sono, lasciare che il dolore faccia il suo corso.

Places all have their own characters. . . . But the people begin to look the same.

our children are not for us to keep, but to give away.

Ho sognato di essere vecchio. E tu, tu mi eri accanto. Per sempre giovane, in mano una tazza di stelle.

When the snow began to fall, Maman was working in the shop, making Easter chocolates. Rabbits and chickens and baskets of eggs. Mendiants and nougatines. Nipples of Venus, and apricot hearts, and bitter orange slices. All wrapped up in cellophane, and tied with colored ribbons, and packed in boxes and sachets and bags, ready to give for Easter.

Here, try one of my mendiants . Dark chocolate, sour cherries, and a sprinkling of coarse black pepper. They're new. Tell me what you think.

A problem shared is a problem solved.

What is it that the slave dreams? The slave dreams of being the master.

But I do like the church. I like the smell of polished wood and incense. I like the colored window glass and the statue of Saint Francis. Reynaud says Saint Francis is the patron saint of animals, who left his life to live in the woods. I'd like to do that. I'd build myself a house in a tree, and live on nuts and strawberries. Maman and I never go to church. Once, that might have caused trouble. But Reynaud says we don't have to go. Reynaud says God sees us, and cares for us, wherever we are.

I go back into the kitchen. There are mendiants cooling on a sheet of greaseproof paper; little discs of chocolate, scattered with pieces of crystallized fruit; chopped almonds and pistachios; dried rose petals and gold leaf. Mendiants were always my favorites; so simple to make that even a child- even Anouk at five years old- was able to make them unsupervised. A sour cherry for the nose; a lemon slice for the mouth. Even her mendiants were smiling.

Madame hesitated. I could see her natural suspicion at war with the scent that came from the box: the smoky, espresso scent of cacao; the hint of clove; of cardamom; of vanilla; the fleeting aroma of Armagnac- a fragrance like lost time; a bittersweetness like childhood's end.

Pensate all'immagine che da una lastra fotografica si trasferisce sulla carta, diventando sempre più scura, da bianca all'oro più pallido, da ambra a seppia. Immaginate la luna mentre gira lentamente il profilo sottile fino a diventare piena, trascinando con sè le maree. Immaginate la crisalide quando schiude la bara dura della larva e mostra le ali al sole. L'insetto perfetto piange il bruco che un tempo è stato? E se ne ricorda?

We came on the wind of the carnival.

Now for the base note of the bean: a wild and bitter blackberry, like fruit picked after the turn of the year. It smells of woodland, and falling leaves, and the dark scent of winter spices.