You mustn't wait for someone to rescue you, . . . . A girl expecting rescue never learns to rescue herself. Even with the means, she'll find her courage wanting.
Thinking of nothing. Trying to think of nothing. Thinking of everything.
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.
To tell the truth, she didn't want to; she liked the constancy of preoccupation.
Was that what Nell had done, too? Forsaken the life and the family she'd been given, to focus instead on the one she'd been without.
We're all unique, just never in the ways we imagine.
You must learn to know the difference between tales and the truth, my Liza, she would say. Fairy tales have a habit of ending too soon. They never show what happens afterwards when the prince and princess ride off the page.
It was such a pleasure to sink one's hands into the warm earth, to feel at one's fingertips the possibilities of the new season.
A way of looking at you that told you she was listening, that she understood all you were saying, and all you weren't.
That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets.
Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.
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.
Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?
The cage door opened and the cuckoo bird fell, fell, fell, until finally her stunted wings opened, and she found that she could fly.
For the perfect gentleman was out there somewhere, waiting for her. He would be nothing like Father, he would be an artist, with an artist's sense of beauty and possibility, who didn't care two whits about bricks and bugs. Who was open and easy to read, whose passions and dreams brought light to his eyes. And he would love her, and only her.
Memory is a cruel mistress with whom we all must learn to dance.
Although it was almost midnight, London wasn't dark. Cities like London never were, she suspected, not anymore. The modern world had killed nighttime.
The happiest folk are those that are busy, for their minds are starved of time to seek out woe.
Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief?
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.
Always remember, with a strong enough will, even the weak can wield great power.
The world was an awfully large place and it wasn't easy to find a person who'd gone missing sixty years earlier, even if that person was oneself.
He had the vague sense of standing on a threshold, the crossing of which would change everything.
Nell was not one for friends and had never hidden her distaste for most other humans, their neurotic compulsion for the acquisition of allies.
An expression of infinite wisdom, as if, in those first days of life, the small person retained the knowledge of a lifetime just passed.
Then he led her to sit by him on a fallen gum trunk, smooth and white, and he leaned to whisper in her ear. Transferred the secret he and her mother had kept for seventeen years. Waited for the flicker of recognition, the minute shift in expression as she registered what he was telling her. Watched as the bottom fell out of her world and the person she had been vanished in an instant.
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.
Oh, Grey, no one really likes keeping secrets. The only thing that makes a secret fun is knowing that you weren't supposed to tell it.
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.
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.
More Kate Morton Quotations (Based on Topics)
Mind - Secrets - Hope - Truth - Soul - Life - Wisdom & Knowledge - Man - Sense & Perception - People - Art - Habit - Mothers - World - Forgiveness - Time - Family - Memory - Smiling - View All Kate Morton Quotations
More Kate Morton Quotations (By Book Titles)
- The Forgotten Garden
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