Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit

by Jeanette Winterson

It all seemed to hinge around the fact that I loved the wrong sort of people. Right sort of people in every respect except this one; romantic love for another woman was a sin.

‘There’s no supper,’ she told her husband when he came in off the late shift.

She knew what was happening, but still held me close and told me not to be silly. ‘Come for a cup after this,’ she decided, ‘but don’t tell t’others.’

The real problem, it seemed, was going against the teachings of St Paul, and allowing women power in the church.

If there’s such a thing as spiritual adultery, my mother was a whore.

The devil had attacked me at my weakest point: my inability to realise the limitations of my sex.

my mother had painted the white roses red and now she claimed they grew that way.

At that time I could not imagine what would become of me, and I didn’t care. It was not judgement day, but another morning.

A long time ago, when the kingdom was divided up into separate compartments like a pressure cooker,

It is not possible to control the outside of yourself until you have mastered your breathing space. It is not possible to change anything until you understand the substance you wish to change. Of course people mutilate and modify, but these are fallen powers, and to change something you do not understand is the true nature of evil.

She forgot how she had come there, or what she had done before. She believe she had always been in the castle, and that she was the sorcerer’s daughter. He told her she was. That she had no mother, but had been specially entrusted to his care by a powerful spirit. Winnet felt this to be true, and besides, where else could she possibly wish to live?

‘It’s my heart.’ ‘But it’s made of stone.’ ‘I know,’ the raven replied sadly. ‘You see I chose to stay, oh, a long time ago, and my heart grew thick with sorrow, and finally set. It will remind you.’

The woman tried to teach Winnet her language, and Winnet learned the words but not the language.

The wind blew and it didn’t seem important, but tomorrow when the wind blew, it would be important. All the familiar things were getting different meanings.

Going back after a long time will make you mad, because the people you left behind do not like to think of you changed, will treat you as they always did, accuse you of being indifferent, when you are only different.

Everyone thinks their own situation most tragic. I am no exception.

I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever been anywhere. My mother was treating me like she always had; had she noticed my absence? Did she even remember why I’d left? I have a theory that every time you make an important choice, the part of you left behind continues the other life you could have had.

The unknownness of my needs frightens me. I do not know how huge they are, or how high they are, I only know that they are not being met.

But not all dark places need light, I have to remember that.