Quotes from Kate Mosse

Si es atal es atal.

There comes always a moment when the desire to act, however ill the cause, is stronger than the wish to listen.

There is no pattern the human mind can devise that does not exist already within the bounds of nature...Everything we do, see, write, notate, all are an echo of the deep seams of the universe. Music is the invisible world made visible through sound.

Pas a pas se va luenh.

History is written by the victorious, the liars, the strongest, the most determined.

Who's to say? Life is not, as we are taught, a matter of seeking answers, but rather learning which are the questions we should ask.

If we do not remember those who have gone before us, we are destined to repeat the same mistakes. We walk blind through time.

Life is not, as we are taught, a matter of seeking answers, but rather learning which are the questions we should ask.

we are who we are because of those we we choose to love and because of those who love us

Too often I am jealous and my jealousy leads me to say things-things-that I regret.

What we attempt to do is not without danger. What we attempt to do may not succeed. But it is right and it is just. We act for the good of all.

What will happen will happen, whether I wish it or no. So, yes, I accept. It does not mean that I like it or wish it were not otherwise.

Music is a personal response to vibration.

You well know that if a lie is repeated often enough, in the face of the clearest evidence to the contrary, even the most level-headed of men start to believe in it. Falsehood easily becomes accepted truth.

And in the air around her, the echo of all those stifled hearts, trapped spirits, fluttered and sighed and breathed.

the bravest act of war is love.

Then he says her name. Her real name. The soft music of it hangs suspended in the air between them. Threat or entreaty, she doesn't know, but she feels her resolve weaken. He says it again, this time, it sounds bitter, false in his mouth. A betrayal. The spell is broken. The woman known as Sophie lifts her arm. And shoots.

The colour of the magpie, her father was saying, was symbolic of creation. The void, the mystery of that which had not yet taken form. Black and white, he said. Presence and absence.

It was not how one lived, but how one chose to die.

People have different views of how you deal with different issues in literature, and, frankly, long may it last that there is a range of views.