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Hope's one thing, expectation's quite another.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Expectation
Expectations
Quite
Hope
Another
Thing

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I simply love writing good stories, that's my passion.
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Those who live in memories are never really dead. The House At Riverton
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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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It's a terrible thing, isn't it, the way we throw people away?
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
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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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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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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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They say everyone needs something to love.
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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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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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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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A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: Ancient walls that sing the distant hours.
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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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. . . companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.
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She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
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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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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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