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Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Life
Moderation
Short
Wouldn
Wells
Well

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What could be more perfect than marrying the person you love.
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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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In real life turning points are sneaky. They pass by unlabeled and unheeded. Opportunities are missed, catastrophes unwittingly celebrated. Turning points are only uncovered later, by historians who seek to bring order to a lifetime of tangled moments.
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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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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 hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
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But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .
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I simply love writing good stories, that's my passion.
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The world was an awfully large place and it wasn't easy to find a person who'd gone missing sixty years earlier, even if that person was oneself.
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Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.
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Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
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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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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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Those who live in memories are never really dead. The House At Riverton
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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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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'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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The stretch of years leaves none unmarked: the blissful sense of youthful invincibility peels away and responsibility brings its weight to bear.
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Life could be cruel enough these days without the truth making it worse.
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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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