Quotes About Kate Atkinson

Love at first sight, she wrote giddily to Millie. But of course such feelings weren't 'true' love (that was what she would feel for a child one day), merely the false grandeur of madness.

Truth is truth to the end of reckoning . What was that from? Measure for Measure ? But perhaps, truth was asleep until the end of reckoning. There was going to be an awful lot of reckoning when the time came.

I think we should begin with a little exercise to flex our writing muscles,' Martha said, speaking very slowly as if she was on prescription drugs but I think it was just her way of trying to communicate with people less intelligent than she thought she was.

Gloria regretted that she wasn't a knitter, she could be producing a useful garment while waiting for Graham to die.

Chevaunne. C-h-e-v-a-u-n-n-e, I have to spell it every time, it's a fucking pain. It's Irish." At least the girl could spell, even if it was only her own misspelled name. Kelly Cross was so thick she couldn't even spell "Siobhan

What a fantastic form of avoidance being a bride of Christ was.

He had a wonderful way of drawing them out with his placid responses (Hm? And Yes, yes and I see), not so much an agent provocateur as an agent passif, if such a thing could be said t exist.

No one was amused now. ('The clowns are the dangerous ones,' Perry said.)

She was flawed, no longer intact. On the other hand, she felt as if she had been scourged clean. The past no longer weighed so heavily on the present.

he said that when the baby was born, if it was a boy, I was to call it Edward." "Edward?" Teddy repeated blankly. "After you." And for the first time in the whole of the war Teddy broke.

Forget typing," Pamela wrote from Leeds, "you should read philosophy at university, you have the right kind of mind for it. Like a terrier with a terrifically tedious bone.")

It was the enormity of war, she thought, it left you scrabbling for ways to think about it. Bridget

those fateful words We are now at war with Germany, and for several hours felt strangely numb. She tried to phone Pamela

I had a novel in the back of my mind when I won an Ian St James story competition in 1993. At the award ceremony an agent asked me if I was writing a novel. I showed her four or five chapters of what would become 'Behind the Scenes at the Museum' and to my surprise she auctioned them off.

I adore Kate Atkinson, her literary as well as her crime output.