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Life could be cruel enough these days without the truth making it worse.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Days
Making
Truth
Without
Enough
Life
Cruel
Worse

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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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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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Happiness in life is not a given, it must be seized.
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She's one of the few people able to look beyond the lines on my face to see the twenty-year-old who lives inside.
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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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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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Doors lead to things and I've never met one I haven't wanted to open.
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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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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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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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She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
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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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Hope's one thing, expectation's quite another.
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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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That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets.
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... for home is a magnet that lures back even its most abstracted children.
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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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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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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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