Quote

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.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Easy
Awfully
Place
Earlier
Persons
Sixty
Person
Oneself
Find
Large
Even
Missing
Years
Wasn
World
Gone

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I love the structural part of the writing process.
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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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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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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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There's a market for mysteries for adults. That feeling of opening a book and delving inside and not coming out until you've closed the book.
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Mother didn't understand that children aren't frightened by stories that their lives are full of far more frightening things than those contained in fairy tales.
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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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Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.
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It's a terrible thing, isn't it, the way we throw people away?
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Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?
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Those who live in memories are never really dead. The House At Riverton
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A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: Ancient walls that sing the distant hours.
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Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
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Hope's one thing, expectation's quite another.
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They say everyone needs something to love.
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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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Doors lead to things and I've never met one I haven't wanted to open.
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. . . companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.
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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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Life could be cruel enough these days without the truth making it worse.
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