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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.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Knowing
Secret
Grey
Tell
Secrets
Makes
Weren
Thing
Keeping
Really
Likes
Supposed
Fun

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And then he was kissing her, and she was struck by his nearness, his solidity, his smell. It was of the garden and the earth and the sun. When Cassandra opened her eyes, she realized she was crying. She wasn't sad, though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home after a long time away.
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What could be more perfect than marrying the person you love.
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Gerry?' Laurel had to strain to hear thought the noise on the other end of the line. 'Gerry? Where are you?' 'London. A phone booth on Fleet Street.' 'The city still has working phone booths?' 'It would appear so. Unless this is the Tardis, in which case I'm in serious trouble.
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Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.
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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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Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief?
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Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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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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I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
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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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It's a terrible thing, isn't it, the way we throw people away?
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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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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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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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Those who live in memories are never really dead. The House At Riverton
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Hope's one thing, expectation's quite another.
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That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets.
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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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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.
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