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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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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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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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Doors lead to things and I've never met one I haven't wanted to open.
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... for home is a magnet that lures back even its most abstracted children.
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She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
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It was such a pleasure to sink one's hands into the warm earth, to feel at one's fingertips the possibilities of the new season.
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While I wasn't certain how I felt about spiritualists, I was certain enough about the type of people who were drawn to them. Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.
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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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It's a terrible thing, isn't it, the way we throw people away?
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Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.
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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.
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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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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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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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You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing.
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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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Those who live in memories are never really dead. The House At Riverton
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I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
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Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
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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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