Kate Morton Quotes
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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Wars make history seem deceptively simple. They provide clear turning points, easy distinctions.: before and after, winner and loser, right and wrong. True history, the past, is not like that. It isn't flat or linear. It has no outline. It is slippery, like liquid; infinite and unknowable, like space. And it is changeable: just when you think you see a pattern, perspective shifts, an alternate version is proffered, a long-forgotten memory resurfaces.
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What could be more perfect than marrying the person you love.
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You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing.
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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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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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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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Better to lose oneself in action than to wither in despair.
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It's special, grandparents and grandchldren. So much simpler. Is it always so, I wonder? I think perhaps it is. While one's child takes a part of one's heart to use and misuse as they please, a grandchild is different. Gone are the bonds of guilt and responsibility that burden the maternal relationship. The way to love is free.
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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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We're all unique, just never in the ways we imagine.
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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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They say everyone needs something to love.
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... for home is a magnet that lures back even its most abstracted children.
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Will history remember us, I wonder? I do hope so - to imagine that one might do something, touch an event somehow, & thereby transcend the bounds of a single human lifetime!
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Life could be cruel enough these days without the truth making it worse.
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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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Thinking of nothing. Trying to think of nothing. Thinking of everything.
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Memory is a cruel mistress with whom we all must learn to dance.
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To abandon a child, she had once said to someone, when she thought Cassandra couldn't hear, was an act so cold, so careless, it refused forgiveness.
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She did as she felt, and she felt a great deal.
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A true friend is a light in the dark.
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His words had tossed the book that was her life into the air and the pages had been blown into disarray, could never be put back together to tell the same story.
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A way of looking at you that told you she was listening, that she understood all you were saying, and all you weren't.