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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.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Hours
Soft
Edge
Edges
Lilt
Slow
Twinge
Lips
Recitation
Sing
Continued
Ancient
Distant
Wall
Walls

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It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down.
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Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.
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A girl expecting rescue never learns to save herself. Even with the means, she will find her courage wanting.
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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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After all, it's the librarian's sworn purpose to bring books together with their one true reader.
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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.
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Doors lead to things and I've never met one I haven't wanted to open.
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets.
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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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Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
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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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Happiness in life is not a given, it must be seized.
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Adults weren’t supposed to understand their children and you were doing something wrong if they did.
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What could be more perfect than marrying the person you love.
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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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Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.
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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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You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing.
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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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