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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
Loved
Adequately
Ugliness
Wretched
Described
Grief
Turned
Poet
Inside

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Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?
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Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.
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Curiosity might have killed the cat, but little girls usually fared much better.
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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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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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I love the structural part of the writing process.
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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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She did as she felt, and she felt a great deal.
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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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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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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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 am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
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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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... for home is a magnet that lures back even its most abstracted children.
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You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing.
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Nighttime is different. Things are otherwise when the world is black. Insecurities and hurts, anxieties and fears grow teeth at night. p493
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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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I've heard it said that children born to stressful times never shake the air of woe . . . .
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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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