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Adults weren’t supposed to understand their children and you were doing something wrong if they did.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Weren
Adults
Supposed
Wrong
Understand
Children
Something

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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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But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .
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In each man's heart there lies a hole. A dark abyss of need, the filling of which takes precedence over all else.
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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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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I've heard it said that children born to stressful times never shake the air of woe . . . .
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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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. . . companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.
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There's a market for mysteries for adults. That feeling of opening a book and delving inside and not coming out until you've closed the book.
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Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with 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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Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
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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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It's a terrible thing, isn't it, the way we throw people away?
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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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Life could be cruel enough these days without the truth making it worse.
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And then he was kissing her, and she was struck by his nearness, his solidity, his smell. It was of the garden and the earth and the sun. When Cassandra opened her eyes, she realized she was crying. She wasn't sad, though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home after a long time away.
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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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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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