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Quote by Kate Morton

“Spices from the Far East- clove and sandalwood and saffron- had drifted through the building's veins from the perfumery next door, infusing the satchel with a hint of faraway places. Open me... The woman in the white gloves unlatched the dull silver buckle and the satchel held its breath. Open me, open me, open me... She pushed back its leather strap and for the first time in over a century light swept into the satchel's dark corners. An onslaught of memories- fragmented, confused- arrived with it: a bell tinkling above the door at W. Simms & Son; the swish of a young woman's skirts; the thud of horses' hooves; the smell of fresh paint and turpentine; heat, lust, whispering. Gaslight in railway stations; a long, winding river; the wheat fragrance of summer-”

Quote by Kate Morton

Book:The Clockmaker's Daughter
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The Clockmaker's Daughter

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Author

Kate Morton
Kate Morton

Kate Morton, born in 1976, is an acclaimed Australian author known for her intricate family histories and emotional storytelling. more

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“The woman glanced up at the stars before lowering to her knees in the sand. She bowed her head, letting the desert grains cover her skirts and run through fingers as she murmured in the old, forgotten language--- the one Agrabah would always respond to. And the ground began to shake. Sand whipped through the air, swirling around the woman, he used her cloak as a shield against the onslaught. The grains spun before her, funneling into a tornado, until every last piece came together to form an unmistakable shape: tigers head, with sharp sandstone for jaws and teeth and a gaping mouth lit by fire. The woman stepped forward and the tiger opened its mouth wider, revealing a glowing staircase within that beckoned her closer. Welcome back, old friend.”

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“Ben ducked beneath the arbor and paused by the fishpond when a memory crept upon him like a shadow. This was the spot where Alice had first read to him from her manuscript. He could still hear her voice, as if it had somehow been captured by the leaves around them and was being played back now, just for him, like a gramophone recording. "I've had a brilliant idea," he heard her say, so young and innocent, so full of joy. "I've been working on it all morning and I don't like to boast, but I'm quite sure it's going to be my best yet." "Is it?" Ben had said with a smile. He'd been teasing, but Alice had been far too excited to notice. She'd leapt on with telling him about her idea, the plot, the characters, the twist, and the intensity of her focus- her passion- changed her face completely, bringing an animated beauty to her features. He hadn't noticed she was beautiful until she spoke to him of her stories. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes shone with intelligence. And she was 'very' clever. It took a certain kind of clever to figure out a puzzle- to look ahead and see through all the possible scenarios, to be so strategic. Ben didn't have that kind of brain. In the beginning he'd simply enjoyed her enthusiasm, the indulgence of being told a story while he worked, the chance to bat ideas back and forth, which was so much like play. She made him feel young, he supposed; her youthful preoccupation with her work, with the very moment they were in, was intoxicating. It made his adult worries disappear.”

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“Bir de benim gibi zavallı hayalperestin hayatına bak! Öldüresiye monoton, gölgelerin, hayallerin, uydurma düşüncelerin tutsağı bir hayat. Kalbi çekilmez işkencelerle dolduran, hep kara bulutlarla kaplı, güneş yüzü görmemiş bir hayat! Oysa bu zavallı Petersburglunun da herkes gibi güneşe ihtiyacı var; güneşsiz görülmüş rüyaların bile değeri yok! İşin en acısı, en sonunda hayal alemi de o çok güvendiğimiz, sonsuz sandığımız alem- yavaş yavaş yorulmaya, eski canlılığını kaybetmeye başlıyor. Bütün rüyalarımızı üstüne kurduğumuz düşünceler eskimeye başlayıp, yerine yenilerini de koyamayınca, hayal alemi de yıkılıp yerle bir oluyor ve geride kala kala çalı çırpı ve toz kalıyor fakat yaşayabileceğiniz tek hayat hayal alemiyse, sizi bekleyen başka bir hayat yoksa, ne yapacaksınız?”

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“Masallar, alışılagelmiş bir düzen içinde (gerçekte, her gün yineleyip durduğumuz birkaç devinime bile alışık olduğumuz söylenemez ya, birtakım temel olguların -kabaca da olsa- yineleneceğini düşünegelmenin yaşamı kolaylaştırır gibi olmasından başka bir dayanağı yoktur bu "alışılagelmiş"in) alışılagelmiş bir düzen içinde akıp giden yaşamın (yaşamın inişli yokuşlu akıp gittiği imgesine gereğinden çok bel bağlarız, unutmamalı) alışılagelmiş bir düzen içinde akıp giden yaşamın bir yerinde, bu düzen, bu alışılmışlık dokusunun yırtılıvermesinden ortaya çıkmıştır hep. Bilgiyi ne için kullandığını unutanlar, güçsüzlüğünü güç sananlar, sevgiyi bayatlatanlar bu dokuyu yırtarken, korku, ördüğümüz duvarların her iki yanında da, duradurur.”

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Book:The Garden of the Departed Cats
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