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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
Two
Connect
Inexorably
Like
Bridges
Edifice
Slowly
Builder
Apart
Extending
Constantly
Constructed
Moving
Continents
Father
Bridge
Mother
Fragile
More quotes by Diane Setterfield
I know there are people who don't read fiction at all, and I find it hard to understand how they can bear to be inside the same head all the time.
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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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What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney?
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Our clients' faces, with the customary outward paleness and inner glow of the book lover.
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For it must be very lonely being dead.
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In this cruel world kindness should always be repaid.
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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
Diane Setterfield
Boys do not leave their boyhood behind when they leave off their school uniform.
Diane Setterfield
One needs no particular talent to be polite. On the contrary, being nice is what's left when you've failed at everything else.
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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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Sometimes you can know things. Things about yourself. Things from before you can remember.
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A good story is always more dazzling than a broken piece of truth.
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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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Of course I loved books more than people.
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But she had that laugh, and the sound of it was so beautiful that when you heard it, it was as if your eyes saw her through your ears and she was transformed.
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Fate, at first so amenable, so reasonable, so open to negotiation, ends up by exacting a cruel revenge for happiness.
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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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But silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words. Without them they grown pale, sicken and die. And then they haunt you.
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Tragedy alters everything.
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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.
Diane Setterfield