Quote

The girl in the mirror caught my eye briefly...It is an uncanny feeling, that rare occasion when one catches a glimpse of oneself in repose. An unguarded moment, stripped of artifice, when one forgets to fool even oneself.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Moment
Mirror
Stripped
Girl
Mirrors
Catches
Feelings
Caught
Forgets
Moments
Oneself
Repose
Even
Fool
Occasion
Unguarded
Feeling
Glimpse
Uncanny
Forget
Rare
Briefly
Eye
Occasions
Artifice

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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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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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A true friend is a light in the dark. Viven
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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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But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .
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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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Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?
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She did as she felt, and she felt a great deal.
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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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I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
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I love the structural part of the writing process.
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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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... for home is a magnet that lures back even its most abstracted children.
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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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She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
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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.
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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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Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.
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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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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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