Better to lose oneself in action than to wither in despair. by Kate Morton

Better to lose oneself in action than to wither in despair.

Kate Morton

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Categorized in : Action Despair Oneself

The girl in the mirror caught my eye briefly...It is an uncanny feeling, that rare occasion when one catches a glimpse of oneself in repose. An unguarded moment, stripped of artifice, when one forgets to fool even oneself.

girl mirrors eye

Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together. by Kate Morton

Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.

were-meant-to-be together book

Those who live in memories are never really dead." The House At R... by Kate Morton

Those who live in memories are never really dead." The House At Riverton

house memories

She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.

stars summer rain

She says there are stories everywhere and that people who wait for the right one to come along before setting pen to paper end up with very empty pages.

waiting stories people

Happiness in life is not a given, it must be seized. by Kate Morton

Happiness in life is not a given, it must be seized.

life-happiness given life-is

. . . companions were to be valued, wherever one found them. by Kate Morton

. . . companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.

companion found

They say everyone needs something to love. by Kate Morton

They say everyone needs something to love.

needs

But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . . by Kate Morton

But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .

hindsight virtue experts

It was the sibling thing, I suppose. I was fascinated by the intricate tangle of love and duty and resentment that tied them together. The glances they exchanged; the complicated balance of power established over decades; the games I would never play with rules I would never fully understand. And perhaps that was key: they were such a natural group that they made me feel remarkably singular by comparison. To watch them together was to know strongly, painfully, all that I'd been missing.

sibling keys games

...She's understood the power of stories. Their magical ability to refill the wounded part of people.

refills stories people

Nighttime is different. Things are otherwise when the world is black. Insecurities and hurts, anxieties and fears grow teeth at night. p493

anxiety hurt night

For it is said, you know, that a letter will always seek a reader; that sooner or later, like it or not, words have a way of finding the light, of making their secrets known.

light secret letters

Hope, how she had grown to hate the word. It was an insideious seed planted inside a person's soul, surviving covertly on little tending, then flowering so spectacularly that none could help but cherish it.

hate soul littles

Mother didn't understand that children aren't frightened by stories; that their lives are full of far more frightening things than those contained in fairy tales.

mother stories children

There’s something about hospital walls; though only made of bricks and plaster, when you’re inside them the noise, the reality of the teeming city beyond, disappears; it’s just outside the door, but it might as well be a magical land far, far away.

wall doors reality

I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one... by Kate Morton

I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.

storyteller tales

Lil had always believed that a person's duty was to make the best of the hand they were dealt. No use wondering what might have been, she used to say, all that matters is what is.

use might hands

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.

kissing eye home

Round and round the questions flew, until finally I found myself standing at the open door of a bookshop. It’s natural in times of great perplexity, I think, to seek out the familiar, and the high shelves and long rows of neatly lined-up spines were immensely reassuring. Amid the smell of ink and binding, the dusty motes in beams of strained sunlight, the embrace of warm, tranquil air, I felt that I could breathe more easily.

smell air thinking