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Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief?

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Turned
Poet
Inside
Loved
Adequately
Ugliness
Wretched
Described
Grief

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I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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Happiness in life is not a given, it must be seized.
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She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
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But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .
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I've heard it said that children born to stressful times never shake the air of woe . . . .
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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 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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You'll beat this. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you will. You're a survivor. I don't want to survive it. I know that, too, Nell had said. And it's fair enough. But sometimes we don't have a choice.
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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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Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
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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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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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After all, it's the librarian's sworn purpose to bring books together with their one true reader.
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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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That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets.
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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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Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.
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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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