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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.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Star
Rain
Summer
Stars
Light
Parched
Earth
Drops
Firsts
Breeze
First
Evening

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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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Cassandra always hid when she read, though she never quite knew why. It was as if she couldn't shake the guilty suspicion that she was being lazy, that surrendering herself so completely to something so enjoyable must surely be wrong. But surrender she did. Let herself drop through the rabbit hole and into a tale of magic and mystery.
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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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The world was an awfully large place and it wasn't easy to find a person who'd gone missing sixty years earlier, even if that person was oneself.
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... for home is a magnet that lures back even its most abstracted children.
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She did as she felt, and she felt a great deal.
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. . . companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.
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My fingers positively itched to drift at length along their spines, to arrive at one whose lure I could not pass, to pluck it down, to inch it open, then to close my eyes and inhale the soul-sparking scent of old and literate dust.
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They say everyone needs something to love.
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Hope's one thing, expectation's quite another.
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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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... people who'd led dull and blameless lives did not give thanks for second chances.
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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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That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets.
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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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But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .
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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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I simply love writing good stories, that's my passion.
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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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Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.
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