Quote

My mother and I were like two continents moving slowly but inexorably apart my father, the bridge builder, constantly extending the fragile edifice he had constructed to connect us.

Diane Setterfield

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Diane Setterfield
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: August 22
Author
Writer
Like
Bridges
Edifice
Slowly
Builder
Apart
Extending
Constantly
Constructed
Moving
Continents
Father
Bridge
Mother
Fragile
Two
Connect
Inexorably

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opening the book, i inhaled. the smell of old books, so sharp, so dry you can taste it.
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There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic.
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A birth is not really a beginning. Our lives at the start are not really our own but only the continuation of someone else's story.
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What better way to get to know someone than through her choice and treatment of books?
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Of course I loved books more than people.
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A good story is always more dazzling than a broken piece of truth.
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What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney?
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I still believe in stories. I still forget myself when I am in the middle of a good book. Books are for me, it must be said, the most important thing.
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I have always been a reader I have read at every stage of my life, and there has never been a time when reading was not my greatest joy
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I shall start at the beginning. Though of coarse, the beginning is never where you think it is.
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The tears I gratified him with were fake ones. Ones that set off my green eyes the way diamonds set off emeralds. And it worked. If you dazzled a man with green eyes, he will be so hypnotized that he won’t notice there is someone inside the eyes spying on him. – Vida Winters Page 268
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In this cruel world kindness should always be repaid.
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Tragedy alters everything.
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Once upon a time there was a fairy godmother, but the rest of the time there was none. This story is about one of those other times.
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Our clients' faces, with the customary outward paleness and inner glow of the book lover.
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She was a do-gooder, which means that all the ill she did, she did without realizing it.
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To anyone who took the trouble to look, I was plainly visible, but when people are expecting to see nothing, that is usually what they see.
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For it must be very lonely being dead.
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My genius is not so frail a thing that it cowers from the dirty fingers of newspapernen.
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People with ambition don't give a damn what other people think of them.
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