We're here, there, not here, not there, swirling like specks of dust, claiming for ourselves the rights of the universe. Being important, being nothing, being caught in lives of our own making that we never wanted. Breaking out, trying again, wondering why the past comes with us, wondering how to talk about the past at all.
Jeanette WintersonArt is a foreign city, and we deceive ourselves when we think it familiar. We have to recognize that the language of art, all art, is not our mother tongue.
Jeanette WintersonWritten on the body is a secret code only visible in certain lights; the accumulations of a lifetime gather there
Jeanette Winterson