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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
Feels
Seasons
Warm
Garden
Fingertips
Possibility
Gardener
Pleasure
Sink
Hands
Gardening
Earth
Possibilities
Feel
Season

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I simply love writing good stories, that's my passion.
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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 doesn't know I cry for the changing times. That just as I reread favourite books, some small part of me hoping for a different ending, I find myself hoping against hope that the war will never come. That this time, somehow, it will leave us be.
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All true readers have a book, a moment when real life is never going to be able to compete with fiction again.
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Hope's one thing, expectation's quite another.
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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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Curiosity might have killed the cat, but little girls usually fared much better.
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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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But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .
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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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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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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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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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Mother didn't understand that children aren't frightened by stories that their lives are full of far more frightening things than those contained in fairy tales.
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Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief?
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Children don’t require of their parents a past and they find something faintly unbelievable, almost embarrassing, in parental claims to a prior existence.
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A true friend is a light in the dark. Viven
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It's a terrible thing, isn't it, the way we throw people away?
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But in my humble opinion, a house needs a good party once in a while remind folks it exists.
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She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
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