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It was such a pleasure to sink one's hands into the warm earth, to feel at one's fingertips the possibilities of the new season.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Pleasure
Sink
Hands
Gardening
Earth
Possibilities
Feel
Season
Feels
Seasons
Warm
Garden
Fingertips
Possibility
Gardener

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Curiosity might have killed the cat, but little girls usually fared much better.
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Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.
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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 did as she felt, and she felt a great deal.
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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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You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing.
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After all, it's the librarian's 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 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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She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
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... people who'd led dull and blameless lives did not give thanks for second chances.
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A true friend is a light in the dark. Viven
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
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In each man's heart there lies a hole. A dark abyss of need, the filling of which takes precedence over all else.
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That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets.
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Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.
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The certainty that she would find what it was she sought just slipped away, until one night she knew there was nothing, no one waiting for her. That no matter how far she walked, how carefully she searched, how much she wanted to find the person she was looking for, she was alone - The Forgotten Garden
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Oh, Grey, no one really likes keeping secrets. The only thing that makes a secret fun is knowing that you weren't supposed to tell it.
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A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: Ancient walls that sing the distant hours.
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