Joanne Harris Quotes

I wondered which was harder, in the end. The act of telling, or who you told it to. Or maybe if, when you finally got it out, the story was really all that mattered.

Wine invents nothing; it only tattles.

All wines are by their very nature full of reminiscence, the golden tears and red blood of summers that are gone.

Secrets make for good drama, and revealing the hidden truths and contradictions of life is, for me, one of the most exciting aspects of making movies.

Truth comes out in wine.

The lies we live will always be confessed in the stories that we tell.

A writer should have this little voice inside of you saying, Tell the truth. Reveal a few secrets here.

When the wine goes in, strange things come out.

When I look back through the 1980s and 1990s, those were some of the funniest experiences I had and, sometimes, some of the most difficult.

Smell brings to mind... a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years.

Old memories are very easy to get except that once you write about something you've destroyed it.

There are some tales not for telling, whether because they are too long, too precious, too laughable, too painful, too easy to need telling or too hard to explain. After all, after years and travels my secrets are all I have left to chew on in the night.

It is always the nights you cannot remember that eventually become the stories you don’t forget.

Only two things can reveal life's great secrets: suffering and love.

The secret anniversaries of the heart.

They held hands and knew that only the coffin would lie in the earth; the bubbly laughter and the press of fingers in the palm would stay aboveground forever. At first, as they stood there, their hands were clenched together. They relaxed slowly until during the walk back home their fingers were laced in as gentle a clasp as that of any two young girlfriends trotting up the road on a summer day wondering what happened to butterflies in the winter.

We live in a world made up more of story than stuff. We are creatures of memory more than reminders, of love more than likes.

In wine, there's truth.

Her grandmother used to tell her that a pink sky meant someone in the distance had just fallen in love . . . .

When Wine enters, out goes the Truth.

There's truth in wine, and there may be some in gin and muddy beer; but whether it's truth worth my knowing, is another question.

The theory is that if you spill all your secrets, you'll have no desire to lie about anything, ever again. Like the worst about you is already in the open, so why not just be honest?

Old pictures look very rugged and young, and the people in the photographs always seem a lot happier than you are.

Secrets find a way out in sleep . . . It is the place where there is no pretense.

I like to write about the way things used to be and paint pictures of my memories with beautiful words and melodies.