Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
There was some justice in his pain
Truly God was good, to make man so blind.
Love and hate are cruel, only liking is kind
It's no fun to be a bluestocking in a family of jockstraps.
How frightening, that one person could mean so much, so many things.
There are no ambitions noble enough to justify breaking someone's heart.
I hate being on my best behavior. It brings out the absolute worst in me.
duty, the most indecent of all obsessions, was only another name for love.
..the best is only bought at the cost of great pain...or so says the legend
When we press the thorn to our chest we know, we understand, and still we do it.
Best of all she liked his eyes, such a translucent golden brown, and so laughing.
Perfection, in anything, is unbearably dull. Myself, I prefer a touch of imperfection.
What was sleep? A blessing, a respite from life, an echo of death, a demanding nuisance?
I think explicit love scenes are a turn off unless it's the kind you read with one hand.
If you love people, they kill you. If you need people, they kill you. They do I tell you!
The lovely thing about being forty is that you can appreciate twenty-five-year-old men more.
I want to know what they look like, their height, and colouring, physique and speech pattens.
It's a dead give away of an inexperienced writer if every character speaks with the same voice
It's a dead give away of an inexperienced writer if every character speaks with the same voice.
Belief doesn't rest on proof or existence...it rests on faith...without faith there is nothing.
There is no doubt that it is more difficult to read and more difficult to write but I still manage.
My husband says it is very good that I have very tiny feet, because they're easier to get in my mouth.
There's a hell of a lot of horny people out there who are not being gratified in the way they should be.
I have an editor in my head, that's why I can't read Harry Potter, because Rowling is such a lousy writer.
I escaped the torture of my childhood home by reading. To this day it is still one of my greatest pleasures.
In early draft it never satisfied me, and that was when it clicked into place and it went so well as a diary.
... the most insoluble problems are those which by their very nature can have no space within them for dreams.
That's the purpose of old age... To give us a breathing space before we die, in which to see why we did what we did.
...she looked like the sort of woman most men would want to get to know because they weren't sure what went on inside.
We're working-class people, which means we don't get rich or have maids. Be content with what you are and what you have.
My books and other works are my legacy, and it's a great comfort to know that mine is a legacy of pleasure for other people.
Yet there's something ominous about turning sixty-five. Suddenly old age is not a phenomenon which will occur; it has occurred.
I am writing a sequel to The Touch because I want to further explore the Chinese question that I have raised. There will be more about that in a sequel.
The Labour Party of today has fits of horrors of the very thought of somebody like me might saying that they bought in white Australia. But I believe they did.
She told fortunes for a living. It's a wacky book and was great fun to write. It is very much a look at what life was like for women in Australia in the 1960's.
I stopped this one about two months before federation and I want the next one to be more political. It will deal with the formation of white Australian policy and things like that.
Oh, that feels good! I don't know who invented ties and then insisted a man was only properly dressed when he wore one, but if I ever meet him, I'll strangle him with his own invention
My fictitious characters will take the bit between their teeth and gallop off and do something that I hadn't counted on. However, I always insist on dragging them back to the straight and narrow
My fictitious characters will take the bit between their teeth and gallop off and do something that I hadn't counted on. However, I always insist on dragging them back to the straight and narrow.
Once I've got the first draft down on paper then I do five or six more drafts, the last two of which will be polishing drafts. The ones in between will flesh out the characters and maybe I'll check my research.
Old age is an ordeal, of flesh and mind. Of winding down, of slowing down, of dying cells. It's accepting the loss of physical attractiveness and replacing it with the power and wisdom that can only come with old age.
Twelve thousand miles of it, to the other side of the world. And whether they came home again or not, they would belong neither here, nor there, for they would have lived on two continents and sampled two different ways of life.
And gradually his memory slipped a little, as memories do, even those with so much love attached to them; as if there is an unconscious healing process within the mind which mends up in spite of our desperate determination never to forget.
In The Touch, the love scenes are the same as they were in The Thorn Birds or anything else Ive ever written. I find a way of saying that either it was heaven or hell but in a way that still leaves room for the reader to use their own imagination.
In The Touch, the love scenes are the same as they were in The Thorn Birds or anything else I've ever written. I find a way of saying that either it was heaven or hell but in a way that still leaves room for the reader to use their own imagination.
The bird with the thorn in its breast, it follows an immutable law; it is driven by it knows not what to impale itself, and die singing. At the very instant the thorn enters there is no awareness in it of the dying to come; it simply sings and sings until there is not the life left to utter another note. But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it.
There's a story... a legend, about a bird that sings just once in its life. From the moment it leaves its nest, it searches for a thorn tree... and never rests until it's found one. And then it sings... more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing, it impales itself on the longest, sharpest thorn. But, as it dies, it rises above its own agony, to outsing the lark and the nightingale. The thorn bird pays its life for just one song, but the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles.
Each of us has something within us which won't be denied, even if it makes us scream aloud to die. We are what we are, that's all. Like the old Celtic legend of the bird with the thorn in its breast, singing its heart out and dying. Because it has to, its self-knowledge can't affect or change the outcome, can it? Everyone singing his own little song, convinced it's the most wonderful song the world has ever heard. Don't you see? We create our own thorns, and never stop to count the cost. All we can do is suffer the pain, and tell ourselves it was well worth it.