Louise Penny Quotes

It's vital to hear your own language, to see it written, to see it valued.

Not everything needed to be brought into the light, he knew. Not every truth needed to be told.

We choose our thoughts. We choose our perceptions. We choose our attitudes

But you knew what would happen. Why would you choose to walk right into a situation where you know the person is going to be hurtful? It kills me to see you do that, and you do it all the time. It's like a form of insanity. - Peter Morrow
You call it insanity, I call it optimism. - Clara Morrow

Every year the hunters shot cows and horses and family pets and each other. And unbelievably, they sometimes shot themselves, perhaps in a psychotic episode where they mistook themselves for dinner

Take this in to them, s'il vous plaît," Chef Véronique's large ruddy hand trembled slightly as she motioned to the trays. "And bring out the pots already there. They'll want fresh tea."

She knew this was a lie. What the family wanted they could never have again. But tea was all she could give them. So she made it. Over and over.

It was vital to be aware of actions in the present. Because the present became the past, and the past grew. And got up, and followed you.

When does a bush that burns become a Burning Bush?

I asked him to leave because he stopped caring for me, stopped supporting me. Not because I'd stopped caring for him.

You can tell a lot about a man by his friends, or lack of them. Do they bring out the best in each other, or are they always gossiping, tearing others down? Keeping wounds alive?

She picked up her book and tried to read but it was heavy in her hands. She struggled to hold it, wanting to finish the story, wanting to know how it ended. She was afraid she'd run out of time before she ran out of book.

It was said with humor, but the criticism wasn't lost on Gamache. He was fishing, and he knew it. So did Sommes. So did Esther. We're all fishermen, she'd said.

The drug smuggling today had, as its godparents, the bootleggers nearly a hundred years ago. The syndicates, the systems, the psyches were created back then.

A belief of convenience isn't much use, is it?

Homes, Gamache knew, were a self portrait. A person's choice of color, furnishing, pictures, every touch revealed the individual. God, or the devil, was in the details. And so was the human. Was it dirty, messy, obsessively clean? Were the decorations chosen to impress, or were they a hodgepodge of personal history? Was the space cluttered or clear? He felt a thrill every time he entered a home during an investigation.

People instinctively let down their guard when they saw a limp, an illness, a flaw in someone else. Not out of compassion but because it made them feel superior. Stronger. Those people, Gamache knew, did not always last long. It was not a useful instinct.

Joy doesn't ever leave, you know. It's always with you. And one day you'll find it again.

Anyone could be clever. Anyone could be smart. Anyone could be taught. But not everyone was kind."
Chapter 1 · Page 10 · Location 202

She'd never actually smiled at a family reunion before. It felt odd.

Chief Inspector Gamache knew one thing about hate. It bound you forever to the person you hated. Murder wasn't committed out of hate, it was done as a terrible act of freedom. To finally rid yourself of the burden.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't be working."
"Of course you should. I'm alright."
"Even F.I.N.E.?"
She laughed. "Especially that."
Fucked-up. Insecure. Neurotic. Egotistical.

Nice hair.' Olivier turned to Clara, hoping to break the tension.
'Thank you.' Clara ran her hands through it, making it stand on end as though she'd just had a scare.
'You're right.' Olivier turned to Myrna. 'She looks like a frightened doughboy from the trenches of Vimy. Not many people could carry off that look. Very bold, very new millennium. I salute you.'
Clara narrowed her eyes and glared at Myrna whose smile went from ear to ear.

Armand Gamache had always held unfashionable beliefs. He believed the light would banish the shadows. That kindness was more powerful than cruelty, and that goodness existed, even in the most desperate places. He believed that evil had its limits.

As the boys screamed and hauled off handfuls of mulch, Olivier had slowly, deliberately, gently taken Gabri's hand and held it before gracefully lifting it to his lips. The boys had watched, momentarily stunned, as Olivier had kissed Gabri's manure-stained hand with his manure-stained lips. The boys had seemed petrified by this act of love and defiance. But just for a moment. Their hatred triumphed and soon their attack had re-doubled.

All children are sad,
but some get over it.

In trying to capture the beautiful mystery, this monk had invented written music. Not yet notes, what he'd written became known as neumes.

I'm just like this. I have no talent for choosing my battles. Life seems, strangely, like a battle to me. The whole thing.

But there was no hiding from Conscience. Not in new homes and new cars. In travel. In meditation or frantic activity. In children, in good works. On tiptoes or bended knee. In a big career. Or a small cabin. It would find you. The past always did. Which was why ... it was vital to be aware of actions in the present. Because the present became the past, and the past grew. And got up, and followed you. And found you ... Who wouldn't be afraid of this?

Where once his grandparents put up crucifixes and images of the benediction on their walls, he and Reine-Marie put up books on theirs. History books. Reference books. Biographies. Fiction, nonfiction. Stories lined the walls and both insulated them from the outside world and connected them to it.

Maps gave them control over their surroundings, for the first time ever. It showed how to get from one place to another. It sounds simple now, but a thousand years ago it would have been an incredible feat of imagination and imagery. All maps are drawn as though looking down. From a bird's point of view. From their god's point of view. Imagine being the first person to think of that. To be able to wrap their minds around a perspective they'd never seen. And then draw it.

A therapist has to have clear boundaries, even with former clients. People already get into our heads - if they also get into our lives, there's a problem.

One day that ego of yours'll kill you. That's all it is, you know. You pretend it's selfless, you pretend to be the great teacher, the wise and patient Armand Gamache, but you and I both know it's ego. Pride. Be careful, my friend. She's dangerous. You've said so yourself.

But privately Reine-Marie wondered. Wondered whether what people did in a crisis was, in fact, their real selves. Stripped of artifice and social training. It was easy enough to be decent when all was going your way. It was another matter to be decent when all hell was breaking loose.

He was drawn to the edge of things. To the places old mariners knew, and warned, "Beyond here be monsters." ... He stepped into the beyond, and found the monsters hidden deep inside all the reasonable, gentle, laughing people. He went where even they were afraid to go.

Violent death demanded Earl Grey.

It was, he knew, a sign of End of Days. Ruth refusing booze.

Recruiters, for terrorist cells and police forces and armies, relied on this simple truth: if you got people young enough, they could be made to do just about anything.

Everyone was getting married and it seemed like fun. I

Some other brown stuff that might not be mud into her tangled hair. All around, villagers wandered with their baskets of brightly colored eggs, looking for the perfect hiding places. Ruth Zardo sat on the bench in the middle of the green tossing

I've been treating you with courtesy and respect because that's the way I choose to treat everyone. But never, ever mistake kindness with weakness.

She took the long way home," said Ruth. "Some do, you know. They seem lost. Sometimes they might even head off in the wrong direction. Lots of people give up, say they're gone forever, but I don't believe that. Some make it home, eventually.

This village has known loss, people killed before their time, accidents, war, disease. Three Pines isn't immune to any of that. But you seem to accept it as part of life and not hang on to the bitterness.

No good ever comes from putting up walls. What people mistake for safety is in fact captivity. And few things thrive in captivity.

She was stuffing her innards back. Sewing herself up, putting her skin, her make-up, her party frock back on.

The glass was old. Leaded. Imperfect. And it was the imperfections that were creating the play of light.

They spoke in semaphore, all punctuation unnecessary.
"You?"
"Great."
They'd trimmed the language to its essentials. Before long it would just be consonants. Then silence.

Sounds like being a therapist. People normally came into my office because something happened. Someone had died, or betrayed them. Their love wasn't reciprocated. They'd lost a job. Gotten divorced. Something big. But the truth was, while that might've been the catalyst, the problem was almost always tiny and old and hidden.

I've been desperately unhappy in my life." Her voice was quiet. "Have you, Chief Inspector?"
It wasn't a response he could have predicted. He nodded.
"I thought so. I think people who have had that experience and survived have a responsibility to help others. We can't let someone drown where we were saved.

First two were obvious.

To be silent. In hopes of not offending, in hopes of being accepted.
But what happened to people who never spoke, never raised their voices? Kept everything inside?
Gamache knew what happened. Everything they swallowed, every word, thought, feeling rattled around inside, hollowing the person out. And into that chasm they stuffed their words, their rage.

It takes years for the moth to evolve from an egg into an adult," he said. "In its final stage the caterpillar spins a cocoon and then it dissolves completely until it's just liquid, then it transforms. It becomes something else entirely. A huge emperor moth. But it's not that easy. Before it can live as a moth it has to fight it's way out of the cocoon. Not all make it."
"They would if I was there," said Ruth, taking another gulp.
Gabriel was uncharacteristically silent.
"What? What is it?" demanded Ruth.
"They need to fight their way out of the cocoon. It builds their wings and muscles. It's the struggle that saves them. Without it they're crippled. If you help an emperor moth, you kill it.

Do you know why we're all happy here, monsieur? Because it's the last house on the road.

And I would never, ever mock the power of love. But it can also distort. Slip over into desperation and delusion.

Thinking is an action,

Not everyone's an explorer, and not every explorer makes it back alive. That's why it takes so much courage.

This was the great benefit of seeing worse. Fewer things worried him now.

He read the familiar first lines of the book and felt the calm come over him, like a comforter.

The world turned upside down,' Beauvoir continued. 'It was at once more beautiful and more frightening than you'd been led to believe. And suddenly you didn't know what to do. Who to trust. Where to turn. It's terrifying. Being lost is so much worse than being on the wrong road. That's why people stay on it for so long.

But he realized Henri already knew all he'd ever need. He knew he was loved and he knew how to love.

Sometimes the only way up is down. Sometimes the only way forward is to back up.

Until the Quiet Revolution gave women back their bodies and Quebeckers back their lives. It invited the church to leave the womb and restrict itself to the altar. It almost worked.

Change the facts and you'll change the feelings."
Chapter 20 · Page 175 · Location 3170

Their creations eventually die of neglect, of malnourishment. And sometimes, when that happens the artist also dies.

Abby Hoffman said we should all eat what we kill. That would put an end to war.

A mind with absolutely no insight into itself, a mind filled with purpose and delusion.

Gamache had been to Three Pines on previous investigations and each time he'd had the feeling he belonged. It was a powerful feeling. After all, what else did people really want except to belong? He

Annie laughed. She had a face, a body, made not for a Paris runway but for good meals and books by the fire and laughter. She was constructed from, and for, happiness. But it had taken Annie Gamache a long while to find it. To trust it.

Why do decent young men and women become bullies? Why do soldiers dream of being heroes but end up abusing prisoners and shooting civilians? Why do politicians become corrupt? Why do cops beat suspects senseless and break the laws they're meant to protect?

Had CC de Poitiers known she was going to be murdered she might have bought her husband, Richard, a Christmas gift.

This was the worst story yet. The phantom life that might have been.

They stole the files of everyone who was involved in the raid. Who came to you for help. Who told you everything. All their fears, their vulnerabilities. What they want from life. What matters to them. A road map in their heads.

Like a first love, the place where peace is first found is never, ever forgotten.

All that had been trivial, that had been comforting and familiar and safe, now seemed to be strapped with explosives.

Let every man shovel out his own snow, and the whole city will be passable," said Gamache. Seeing Beauvoir's puzzled expression he added, "Emerson."
"Lake and Palmer?"
"Ralph and Waldo.

But, like peace, comfort didn't come from hiding away or running away. Comfort first demanded courage.

she knew the real threat to her happiness came not from the dot in the distance, but from looking for it. Expecting it. Waiting for it. And in some cases, creating it.

Beauvoir left their home wanting to call his wife and tell her how much he loved her, and then tell her what he believed in, and his fears and hopes and disappointments. To talk about something real and meaningful. He dialed his cell phone and got her. But the words got caught somewhere south of his throat. Instead he told her the weather had cleared, and she told him about the movie she'd rented. Then they both hung up.

... walked deep into the shadow, deep into the longhouse where all his experiences and memories lived ...

All Armand's life Honoré had lived in light. Unchallenged….Armand put out his hand, and touched the door. The last room, the last door [in the longhouse]. The last territory to explore didn't hold monstrous hate or bitterness or rancid resentments. It held love. Blinding, beautiful love.

He felt like a mobile library. Where other investigators gathered fingerprints and evidence, he gathered books.

Pierre Patenaude, whom she was currently interviewing, had just explained that the staff changed almost every year, so it was necessary to train most of them. "Do you have trouble holding on to staff?" she asked. "Mais, non," Madame Dubois said. Agent Lacoste had

Some mothers see their job as preparing their kids to live in the big old world. To be independent, to marry and have children of their own. To live wherever they choose and do what makes them happy. That's love. Others, and we all see them, cling to their children. Move to the same city, the same neighborhood. Live through them. Stifle them. Manipulate, use guilt-trips, cripple them.' 'Cripple them? How?' 'By not teaching them to be independent.

Chief Superintendent Arnot might hold power, but Armand Gamache was the more powerful man.

But we don't have to react. That's what I'm saying. A police force, like a government, should be above that. Just because we're provoked doesn't mean we have to act.
Still Life

Gamache nodded. It was what made his job so fascinating, and so difficult. How the same person could be both kind and cruel, compassionate and wretched. Unraveling a murder was more about getting to know the people than the evidence. People who were contrary and contradictory, and who often didn't even know themselves.

in Beauvoir's experience losers were the most dangerous people. Because eventually they got to the stage where they had nothing more to lose.

Eventually he'd let the answering machine take over and had hidden in his studio. Where he's hidden all his life. From the monster.
He could feel itin their bedroom now. He could feel its tail swishing by him. Feel its hot, fetid breath.
All his life he knew if he was quiet enough, small enough, it wouldnn't see him. If he didn't make a fuss, didn't speak up, it wouldn't hear him, wouldn't hurt him. If he was beyond criticism and hid his cruelty with a smile and good deeds, it wouldn't devour him.
By now he realized there was no hiding. It would always be there, and always find him.
He was the monster.

Not everything buried is actually dead. For many, the past is alive.

I think you might try leading your life as though it's just you. If he comes back and you know your life will be better with him, then great. But you'll also know you're enough on your own.

emotions were far from linear. They were circles and waves and dots and triangles. But they were rarely a straight line."
Chapter 13 · Page 114 · Location 2031

Sometimes the beard was loose, sometimes it was braided and sometimes, like that afternoon, it was in its own ponytail so that Al's head looked like something about to be tie-dyed.

Anyone so damaged as to cause this much harm led a life full of secrets and full of enemies.

Like a ship changing course. It might take a while to get to port, but at least it was going in the right direction.

And Beauvoir knew then the man was a saint. He's been touched by any number of medical men and women. All healers, all well intentioned, some kind, some rough. All made it clear they wanted him to live, but none had made him feel that his life was precious, was worth saving, was worth something.

There are generally three parties to child abuse: the abused, the abuser and the bystander.

Surprised by Joy Professor

Not a spoon clinked against a mug, not a creamer was popped, peeled and opened, not a breath. It was as though something else had joined them then. As though silence had taken a seat.

He knew time could heal. But it could also do more damage. A forest fire, spread over time, would consume everything.

Photos sat on the piano and shelves bulged with books, testament to a life well lived.

Irene Finney, like many very elderly people, knew that the world was indeed flat. It had a beginning and an end. And she had come to the edge.