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She's one of the few people able to look beyond the lines on my face to see the twenty-year-old who lives inside.
Kate Morton
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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
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Berri
South Australia
Australia
People
Year
Face
Faces
Lives
Twenty
Able
Twenties
Look
Beyond
Looks
Inside
Years
Lines
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But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .
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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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Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
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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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Hope's one thing, expectation's quite another.
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What could be more perfect than marrying the person you love.
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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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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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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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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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That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets.
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. . . companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.
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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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She did as she felt, and she felt a great deal.
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Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.
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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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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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A true friend is a light in the dark. Viven
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