Quote

It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Memories
Captured
Came
Photographs
Future
Cruel
Ironical
Force
Allowed
Glimpsed
Moments
Photograph
Evaporate
Art
Photography
Dragging
Past
Exist
Weighed
People
Events
Fog

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What could be more perfect than marrying the person you love.
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I want to be independent. To meet interesting people. ... I just mean new people with clever things to say. Things I've never heard before. I want to be free. Open to whatever adventure comes along and sweeps me off my feet.
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Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
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It didn't occur to him that she might have chosen to remain this way. That where he saw reserve and loneliness, Cassandra saw self-preservation and the knowledge that it was safer when one had less to lose.
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My fingers positively itched to drift at length along their spines, to arrive at one whose lure I could not pass, to pluck it down, to inch it open, then to close my eyes and inhale the soul-sparking scent of old and literate dust.
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It's special, grandparents and grandchldren. So much simpler. Is it always so, I wonder? I think perhaps it is. While one's child takes a part of one's heart to use and misuse as they please, a grandchild is different. Gone are the bonds of guilt and responsibility that burden the maternal relationship. The way to love is free.
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Life could be cruel enough these days without the truth making it worse.
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Nighttime is different. Things are otherwise when the world is black. Insecurities and hurts, anxieties and fears grow teeth at night. p493
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Curiosity might have killed the cat, but little girls usually fared much better.
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Those who live in memories are never really dead. The House At Riverton
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Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down, before they knew their endings.
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Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.
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She'd slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she'd been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.
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She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
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In real life turning points are sneaky. They pass by unlabeled and unheeded. Opportunities are missed, catastrophes unwittingly celebrated. Turning points are only uncovered later, by historians who seek to bring order to a lifetime of tangled moments.
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While I wasn't certain how I felt about spiritualists, I was certain enough about the type of people who were drawn to them. Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.
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She felt like a fictional character who'd escaped the book in which her creator had carefully and kindly trapped her, taken a pair of scissors to her outline and leaped, free.
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I've heard it said that children born to stressful times never shake the air of woe . . . .
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They say everyone needs something to love.
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I sound contemptuous, but I am not. I am interested--intrigued even--by the way time erases real lives, leaving only vague imprints. Blood and spirit fade away so that only names and dates remain.
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