Explore Quotes by Kate Morton

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

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

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.

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.

In each man's heart there lies a hole. A dark abyss of need, the filling of which takes precedence over all else.

It's a funny thing, character, the way it brands people as they age, rising from within to leave its scar.

Darling girl, blinded by foolish thoughts of love. How to tell her that the hearts of men were not so easily won. If won, rarely kept.

The happiest folk are those that are busy, for their minds are starved of time to seek out woe.

But in my humble opinion, a house needs a good party once in a while; remind folks it exists.

If you don't stop apologizing, you're going to convince me you've done something wrong.

I've heard it said that children born to stressful times never shake the air of woe . . . .

Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.

The stretch of years leaves none unmarked: the blissful sense of youthful invincibility peels away and responsibility brings its weight to bear.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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