When Henri writes ‘ When I fell in love it was as though I looked into a mirror for the first time and saw myself,’ we see the way he has absorbed Villanelle into himself, with her own words coming out through his ideas as he writes this novel decades after the events that transpire. It is her explaining him to himself, even if she does not know it.

We don’t build our bridges simply to avoid walking on water… A bridge is a meeting place. A neutral place.”

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Our village holds a bonfire every year at the end of winter. We had been building it for weeks, tall as a cathedral with a blasphemous spire of broken snares and infested pallets. There would be plenty of wine and dancing and a sweetheart in the dark and because we were leaving we were allowed to light it. As the sun went down we plunged our five burning brands into the heart of the pyre. My mouth went dry as I heard the wood take and splinter until the first flame pushed its way out. I wished I were a holy man then with an angel to protect me so I could jump inside the fire and see my sins burned away. I go to confession but there’s no fervour there. Do it from the heart or not at all. Villanelle is the enchanting daughter of a Venetian boatman, working the casinos of this otherworldly city. She dresses as a boy to please the patrons of the gambling floor while assisting the dealers and lifting the wallets of the unsuspecting on the side. A dangerous love affair eventually catches up to her and Villanelle is the one that finds something precious has been stolen from her.

To survive zero winter and that war we made a pyre of our hearts and put them aside forever. There’s no pawnshop for the heart. You can’t take it in and leave it awhile in a clean cloth and redeem it in better times.’ I'm ashamed to say that this was the first novel by Jeanette Winterson that I have read, but I will certainly seek out her other works. Winterson refers to the cities of the interior several times, mentioning that there is no map for the interior. This seems like the mind, where you can have grand adventures and travel great distances without ever leaving your home. You can also get lost there and never find your way out. Villanelle traveled the interior canals of Venice through intuition and many years of experience.One of the most original voices in British fiction to emerge during the 1980s, Winterson was named as one of the 20 "Best of Young British Writers" in a promotion run jointly between the literary magazine Granta and the Book Marketing Council. Jeanette Winterson's vision of the future of AI is messianic – but unconvincing". 18 August 2021. Archived from the original on 21 September 2021 . Retrieved 19 September 2021. Reading Jeanette Winterson’s prose is like soaking in the most luxurious bath. It’s warm and sensuous and leaves me feeling a bit light-headed once I’ve finished. It’s difficult to describe her writing. The one word that comes to mind immediately is magical. Of the four pieces I’ve read so far, the plot seems secondary to the prose, until I’ve finished. Then all of a sudden I’m able to see the beautiful tapestry she’s woven together. I nearly always start at the beginning and read through all the wondrous phrases I’ve highlighted all over again. And there are plenty of them! This is a story about passion and love in all its various forms, beginning with the Napoleonic Wars and the love of a country for its hero. By the age of 16, Winterson had come out as a lesbian and left home. [5] [6] [7] She soon after attended Accrington and Rossendale College, [8] and supported herself at a variety of odd jobs while studying English at St. Catherine's College, Oxford. [9] Career [ edit ] Don't Protect Me - Respect Me". Richard Dimbleby Lecture. Episode 42. 6 June 2018. BBC One. Archived from the original on 12 June 2018 . Retrieved 8 June 2018.

I was happy but happy is an adult word. You don't have to ask a child about happy, you see it. They are or they are not. Adults talk about being happy because largely they are not. Talking about it is the same as trying to catch the wind.” Pleasure on the edge of danger is sweet. It’s the gambler’s sense of losing that makes winning an act of love.” Why would people who love the grape and the sun die in the zero winter for one man? Why did I? Because I love him. He was my passion and when we go to war, we feel we are not a lukewarm people any more.” I loved this book. It’s not long, and it’s an easy read (you don’t need to be a literary critic to enjoy it!), but the style and world are so marvellous, I wanted to linger. There is history and love, but it’s not a historical romance. What am I interested in? Passion. Obsession… The dividing line is as thin and cruel as a Venetian knife.”They’re all different… snowflakes. Think of that.’ I did think of that and I fell in love with her.” Winterson, Jeanette (12 June 2010). "Once upon a life: Jeanette Winterson". The Guardian. ISSN 0261-3077. Archived from the original on 5 July 2018 . Retrieved 12 January 2019– via www.theguardian.com.

Winterson is a master of her material, a writer in whom great talent deeply abides." — Vanity Fair First published to great acclaim in 1987, this arresting, elegant novel from Jeanette Winterson uses Napolean’s Europe as the setting for a tantalizing surrealistic romance between an observer of history and a creature of fantasy. Jeanette Winterson’s novels have established her as one of the most important young writers in world literature. The Passion is perhaps her most highly acclaimed work, a modern classic that confirms her special claim on the novel. Set during the tumultuous years of the Napoleonic Wars, The Passion intertwines the destinies of two remarkable people: Henri, a simple French soldier, who follows Napoleon from glory to Russian ruin; and Villanelle, the red-haired, web-footed daughter of a Venetian boatman, whose husband has gambled away her heart. In Venice’s compound of carnival, chance, and darkness, the pair meet their singular destiny.Jeanette Winterson’s prose is like a poetic dream but one that never loses the thread of story. Like a sculptor with words, she shapes a form that soars and plummets, that adds and subtracts, drawing out the curves and nuances of humanity in all its sordid grandeur. She looks at the messy, rough, hard shape of us but doesn’t neglect the luminous, the terrible, the magnificent, the numinous…her words create an uplifting emotion, much of which comes from the sheer beauty of her thoughts strung like philosophical jewels, little shiny bread crumbs that could lead to a witch’s house or a sublime haven, I’m not sure which, but I’m going either way.