Schlagwortarchiv für: Jeanette Winterson

I used to be a hopeless roman­tic. I am still a hopeless roman­tic. I used to belie­ve that love was the hig­hest value. I still belie­ve that love is the hig­hest value. I don’t expect to be hap­py. I don’t ima­gi­ne that I will find love, wha­te­ver that means, or that if I do find it, it will make me hap­py. I don’t think of love as the ans­wer or the solu­ti­on. I think of love as a for­ce of natu­re – as strong as the sun, as necessa­ry, as imper­so­nal, as gigan­tic, as impos­si­ble, as scor­ching as it is war­ming, as drought-making as it is life-giving. And when it burns out, the pla­net dies.
My litt­le orbit of life cir­cles love. I dar­en­’t get any clo­ser. I’m not a mys­tic see­king final com­mu­ni­on. I don’t go out without SPF 15. I pro­tect myself.
But today, when the sun is ever­y­whe­re, and ever­ything solid is not­hing but its own shadow, I know that the real things in life, the things I remem­ber, the things I turn over in my hands, are not houses, bank accounts, pri­zes or pro­mo­ti­ons. What I remem­ber is love – all love – love of this dirt road, this sun­ri­se, a day by the river, the stran­ger I met in a café. Mys­elf, even, which is the har­dest thing of all to love, becau­se love and sel­fi­sh­ness are not the same thing. It is easy to be sel­fi­sh. It is hard to love who I am. No won­der I am sur­pri­sed if you do.
But love it is that wins the day.
(Jea­net­te Win­ter­son – Lighthousekeeping)

What should I do about the wild and the tame? The wild heart that wants to be free, and the tame heart that wants to come home. I want to be held. I don’t want you to come too clo­se. I want you to scoop me up and bring me home at nights. I don’t want to tell you whe­re I am. I want to keep a place among the rocks whe­re no one can find me. I want to be with you.
(Jea­net­te Win­ter­son – Lighthousekeeping)

Why did­n’t Babel Dark mar­ry Molly?
He doub­ted her. You must never doubt the one you love.
But they might not be tel­ling you the truth.
Never mind that. You tell them the truth.
What do you mean?
You can’t be ano­t­her person’s hones­ty, child, but you can be your own.
So what should I say?
When?
When I love someone?
You should say it.
(Jea­net­te Win­ter­son – Lighthousekeeping)

In a vacu­um all pho­tons tra­vel at the same speed. They slow down when tra­vel­ling through air or water or glass. Pho­tons of dif­fe­rent ener­gies are slo­wed down at dif­fe­rent rates. If Tol­stoy had known this, would he have reco­gnis­ed the ter­ri­ble untruth at the begin­ning of Anna Kare­ni­na? ‘All hap­py fami­lies are ali­ke; every unhap­py fami­ly is unhap­py in its own par­ti­cu­lar way.’ In fact it’s the other way around. Hap­pi­ness is a spe­ci­fic. Mise­ry is a gene­ra­li­sa­ti­on. Peop­le usual­ly know exact­ly why they are hap­py. They very rare­ly know why they are mise­ra­ble. (…) Mise­ry is a vacu­um. A space without air, a suf­fo­ca­ted dead place, the abo­de of the mise­ra­ble. Mise­ry is a tene­ment block, rooms like bat­te­ry cages, sit over your own drop­pings, lie on your own fil­th. Mise­ry is a no U‑turns, no stop­ping road. Tra­vel down it pushed by tho­se behind, trip­ped by tho­se in front. Tra­vel down it at furious speed though the days are mum­mi­fied in lead. It hap­pens so fast once you get star­ted, there’s no anchor from the real world to slow you down, not­hing to hold on to. Mise­ry pulls away the bra­ckets of life lea­ving you to free fall. Wha­te­ver your pri­va­te hell, you’ll find mil­li­ons like it in Mise­ry. This is the town whe­re everyone’s night­ma­res come true.
(Jea­net­te Win­ter­son – Writ­ten on the Body)

I want someo­ne who is fier­ce and will love me until death and know that love is as strong as death, and be on my side for ever and ever. I want someo­ne who will des­troy and be des­troy­ed by me. The­re are many forms of love and affec­tion, some peop­le can spend their who­le lives tog­e­ther without knowing each other’s names. Naming is a dif­fi­cult and time-con­suming pro­cess; it con­cerns essen­ces, and it means power. But on wild nights who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name. Roman­tic love has been dilu­t­ed into paper­back form and has sold thousands and mil­li­ons of copies. Some­whe­re it is still in the ori­gi­nal, writ­ten on tablets of stone. I would cross seas and suf­fer sun­stro­ke and give away all I have, but not for a man, becau­se they want to be the des­troy­er and never be des­troy­ed. That is why they are unfit for roman­tic love. The­re are excep­ti­ons and I hope they are happy.
(Jea­net­te Win­ter­son – Oran­ges Are Not The Only Fruit)