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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
Ancient
Distant
Wall
Walls
Hours
Soft
Edge
Edges
Lilt
Slow
Twinge
Lips
Recitation
Sing
Continued

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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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I simply love writing good stories, that's my passion.
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But in my humble opinion, a house needs a good party once in a while remind folks it exists.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing.
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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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The certainty that she would find what it was she sought just slipped away, until one night she knew there was nothing, no one waiting for her. That no matter how far she walked, how carefully she searched, how much she wanted to find the person she was looking for, she was alone - The Forgotten Garden
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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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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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A true friend is a light in the dark. Viven
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I love the structural part of the writing process.
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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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Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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