Quotes from Jeanette Winterson

There is a city surrounded by water with watery alleys that do for streets and roads and silted up back ways that only the rats can cross. Miss your way, which is easy to do, and you may find yourself staring at a hundred eyes guarding a filthy palace of sacks and bones. Find your way, which is easy to do, and you may meet an old woman in a doorway. She will tell your fortune, depending on your face. This is the city of mazes.

Por qué lo menos original que podemos decirnos uno a otro sigue siendo lo que más anhelamos oír?

The English are serial racists--one group gets accepted, another group becomes the scapegoat.

An ordinary miracle, your body changing under my hands. And yet, how to believe in the obvious surprise? Extraordinary, unlikely that you should want me.

Somewhere between fear and sex. Somewhere between God and the devil passion is and the way there is sudden and the way back is worse.

Be confident, he advised me. 'Be confident even in your mistakes. In Allah there is no wrong road. There is only the road you must travel' 'And if the road leads nowhere?' He shrugged. 'Turn your Nowhere into Somewhere.

I'm living on my memories like a cheap has-been.

I know how it is. Saying too much. Saying too little. Who says enough? Just enough? My closest conversations are bad translations. That's not what I meant--not what I meant at all.

But I tell you, Henri, that every moment you steal from the present is a moment you have lost for ever. There's only now.

I think I may have missed the world, that the one I've seen is a decoy to get me off the scent.

When you dig under the surface, past the necessities, men and women don't mix.

We live as best we may in a world of worms.

I shall have nowt to talk to now the baby is boiled.

He would hope that, left to itself, the slight spark of life which he had communicated would fade; that the thing which had received such imperfect animation would subside into dead matter, and he might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would quench forever the transient existence of the hideous corpse which he had looked upon as the cradle of life.

De ce masura iubirii este pierderea ei?

and putting on his white gloves so that the fingerprints would not show he tapped at my heart and I thought he said his name was Love.

Well done, my fine fellow out of my womb. What have you gained? Nothing! And oh, what have you lost? Everything!

I wish to know, said Claire. God help us, muttered Byron. I wish TO KNOW why all that ails mankind must be the fault of womankind? Women are weak, said Byron. Or perhaps men need to believe it is so, I said.

For myself, with no one to love, a hedgehog spirit seemed best and I hid my heart in the leaves.

Dark could feel the familiar pain behind his eyes. His eyes were bars, and behind them was a fierce, unfed animal. When people looked at him they had the feeling of being shut out. He did not shut them out. He shut himself in.

Just because you can't tell what it is, doesn't mean it's not what it is.

I took them into the garden and burned them one by one and I thought how easy it is to destroy the past and how difficult to forget it.

There is a sense of the human spirit as always existing. This makes our own death bearable.

I will have red roses next year. A forest of red roses. On this rock? In this climate? I'm telling you stories. Trust me.