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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.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Real
Remain
Contemptuous
Even
Interested
Dates
Way
Blood
Intrigued
Time
Names
Fade
Sound
Erase
Lives
Fades
Away
Vague
Imprints
Spirit
Leaving
Erases

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Curiosity might have killed the cat, but little girls usually fared much better.
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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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Cassandra always hid when she read, though she never quite knew why. It was as if she couldn't shake the guilty suspicion that she was being lazy, that surrendering herself so completely to something so enjoyable must surely be wrong. But surrender she did. Let herself drop through the rabbit hole and into a tale of magic and mystery.
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But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .
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I'm good with words, but not the spoken kind I've often thought what a marvelous thing it would be if I could only conduct relationships on paper.
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What could be more perfect than marrying the person you love.
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I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
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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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Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?
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Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.
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Nell was not one for friends and had never hidden her distaste for most other humans, their neurotic compulsion for the acquisition of allies.
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The girl in the mirror caught my eye briefly...It is an uncanny feeling, that rare occasion when one catches a glimpse of oneself in repose. An unguarded moment, stripped of artifice, when one forgets to fool even oneself.
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Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
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It's a terrible thing, isn't it, the way we throw people away?
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. . . companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.
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She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
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The stretch of years leaves none unmarked: the blissful sense of youthful invincibility peels away and responsibility brings its weight to bear.
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She either confused me with a much older child or else she glimpsed deep inside my soul and perceived a hole that needed filling. I've always chosen to believe the latter. After all, it's the librarian's one sworn purpose to bring books together with their one true reader.
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Doors lead to things and I've never met one I haven't wanted to open.
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She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.
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