Quote

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

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She felt like a fictional character who'd escaped the book in which her creator had carefully and kindly trapped her, taken a pair of scissors to her outline and leaped, free.
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All true readers have a book, a moment when real life is never going to be able to compete with fiction again.
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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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You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing.
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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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Adults weren’t supposed to understand their children and you were doing something wrong if they did.
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Sometimes, Edie, a person's feelings aren't rational. At least, they don't seem that way on the surface. You have to dig a little deeper to understand what lies at the base
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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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Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down, before they knew their endings.
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I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
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She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
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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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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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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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... people who'd led dull and blameless lives did not give thanks for second chances.
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I love the structural part of the writing process.
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Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.
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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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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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A girl expecting rescue never learns to save herself. Even with the means, she will find her courage wanting.
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