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The House at Riverton: A Novel Paperback – March 3, 2009
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"This novel will challenge your definitions of friendship, family and, most of all, trust." -- Hallmark Magazine (Hallmark Magazine)
"An extraordinary debut...written with a lovely turn of phrase. [Morton] knows how to eke out tantalizing secrets and drama." -- The Sunday Telegraph (UK) (Sunday Telegraph UK)
About the Author
Kate Morton, a native Australian, holds degrees in dramatic art and English literature. She lives with her family in London and Australia.
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This book almost seems like it was written by 2 different people - the beginning by a novice want-to-be writer, then a Pro writer who comes in and "cleans" everything up, ties it together adds a twist or two and voila the book is completed. Like so many other reviewers stated before me, the first part of the book is hard to follow, does not flow smoothly but then somewhere in the middle it takes a turn and true to this author's reputation it's a great read with a few twists I didn't see coming.
My reason for not giving it more than 3 stars is the beginning, even up to the first half , you will find that you are fighting with yourself to continue to read this book, to get thru the dull for-no-reason- beginning , the confusing dialogue and the "what did I miss" paragraphs where you sometimes feel like you have to go back and re- read it to completely understand it. I found the going back and forth from present to past was not smooth and at times hard to follow now having said that, once you get thru that part, the book does become a fast riveting read, it's just too bad that entire book was not like that.
I say it's ok not her best, save your money if the book's over 5.99.
I have surprised myself. While moths have torn holes in my recent memories, I find the distant past is sharp and clear. They come often, those ghosts from the past, and I am surprised to find I don't much mind them.
I am crying. After all these years I have begun crying for them. Warm tears seep from my eyes, following the lines of my face until the air dries them, sticky and cool against my skin. Sylvia is with me again. She has brought a tissue and uses it to mop cheerfully at my face. To her these tears are a simple matter of faulty plumbing. Yet another inevitable, innocuous sign of my great age.
"I'm sure she doesn't need relieving. It's special, grandparents and grandchildren So much simpler." Is it always so, I wonder? I think perhaps it is. While one's child takes a part of one's heart to use and misuse as they please, a grandchild is different. Gone are the bonds of guilt and responsibility that burden the maternal relationship. The way to love is free.