Quote

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.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Mystery
Inside
Coming
Delving
Feeling
Mysteries
Feelings
Closed
Book
Opening
Market
Adults

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That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets.
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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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Nell was not one for friends and had never hidden her distaste for most other humans, their neurotic compulsion for the acquisition of allies.
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Happiness in life is not a given, it must be seized.
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She did as she felt, and she felt a great deal.
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Curiosity might have killed the cat, but little girls usually fared much better.
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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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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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Hope's one thing, expectation's quite another.
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Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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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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She felt like a fictional character who'd escaped the book in which her creator had carefully and kindly trapped her, taken a pair of scissors to her outline and leaped, free.
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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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Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?
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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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A true friend is a light in the dark. Viven
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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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