Quote

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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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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Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
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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 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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I love the structural part of the writing process.
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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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That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets.
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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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I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
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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'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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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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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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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.
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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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I've heard it said that children born to stressful times never shake the air of woe . . . .
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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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... for home is a magnet that lures back even its most abstracted children.
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Sometimes, Edie, a person's feelings aren't rational. At least, they don't seem that way on the surface. You have to dig a little deeper to understand what lies at the base
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But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .
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