Jeanette Winterson

Dinginess is death to a writer. Filth, discomfort, hunger, cold, trauma and drama, don’t matter a bit. I have had plenty of each and they have only encouraged me, but dinginess, the damp small confines of the mediocre and the gradual corrosion of beauty and light, the compromising and the settling; these things make good work impossible.

it seemed to me in those days of no money, no job, no prospects and a determined dinginess creeping up from the lower floors of our rooming house, that there had to be a centre, a talisman, a fetish even, that secured order where there seemed to be none; dressing for dinner every night in the jungle

To do something large and to do it well demands such observances, personal and peculiar, laughable as they often are, because they stave off that dinginess of soul that says that everything is small and grubby and nothing is really worth the effort.

It is the duty of every generation of writers and artists to find fresh ways of expressing the habitual circumstances of the human condition

‘Grant me’ . . . fame? money? success? No. Just the knack of knowing when to stop.

‘you are in danger of being burned by your own flame.’

The whole of life is about another chance, and while we are alive, till the very end, there is always another chance.

The horrible sick feeling that I had never belonged and never would belong

. I understood twice born was not just about being alive, but about choosing life. Choosing to be alive and consciously committing to life, in all its exuberant chaos – and its pain.

Listen, we are human beings. Listen, we are inclined to love. Love is there, but we need to be taught how.