Quotes from Louise Penny

Myrna understood how damaging it was to compare pain. To dismiss hurt just because it wasn't the worst.

After years of investigating murders 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.

The madness of crowds was a terrible thing to see. The madness of police with clubs and guns was even worse.

Time, it covered over everything eventually. Events, people, memory. Chiniquy had disappeared beneath Time.

Myrna...prayed God wasn't one of of the men or women she'd betrayed by signing their release. Myrna's weight wasn't all carried around her middle.

told them the four statements that led to wisdom. Never repeating them. I was wrong. I'm sorry. I don't know. I need help.

Who hurt you once, so far beyond repair / that you would greet each overture with curling lip? The lines from Ruth Zardo's poem exploded in his head. In his chest. Me, he realized with horror. I did.

They'd crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn't. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs.

Gamache wondered how low the bar was set when all a man had to do to attract a woman was not smell like decomposing bears.

But Isabelle Lacoste had been in the Sûreté long enough to know how much easier it was to shoot than to talk. How much easier it was to shout than to be reasonable. How much easier it was to humiliate and demean and misuse authority than to be dignified and courteous, even to those who were themselves none of those things. How much more courage it took to be kind than to be cruel.

Young Langlois had sat down and gathered that power to him. The power that came from having information, knowledge, thoughts, and a calm place to collect them.

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

Clara found it easy to forgive most things in most people. Too easy, her husband Peter often warned. But Clara had her own little secret. She didn't really let go of everything. Most things, yes. But some she secretly held and hugged and would visit in moments when she needed to be comforted by the unkindness of others.

She threw great logs of 'I'm right, you're an unfeeling bastard' on to the fire and felt secure and comforted.

Now you will feel no rain / For each of you will be shelter for the other, Armand thought as he too got to his feet. It was the First Nations blessing he and Reine-Marie had had read at their wedding. Now there is no more loneliness. Go now to your dwelling place / To enter into the days of your togetherness.

his cell phone didn't work in Three Pines, and neither did email. He almost expected to see messages fluttering back and forth in the sky above the village, unable to descend.

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

Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter for the other," Gamache quoted. Now you will feel no cold For each of you will be warmth for the other Now there is no loneliness for you Now there is no more loneliness Now there is no more loneliness.

If stupid was sand, he'd be half the Sahara.

We knew who would want him found, Dr Croix, but who wants him to remain buried?

A lie was a light. One that grew into a floodlight, that eventually illuminated the person among them with the biggest secret. The most to hide.

You can't get milk from a hardware store. So stop asking for something that can't be given. And look for what is offered. She saw the fork of food, and the thin lips that rarely smiled at them, blowing on it.

All shall be well. And all shall be well. And all manner of thing shall be well. It was a quote from one of Gamache's favorite writers, the Christian mystic Julian of Norwich. Who'd offered hope in a time of great suffering.

She closed her eyes and felt him inside her skin. Where he was vibrant and smart and irreverent and loving. She saw his smile, heard his laugh. Felt his hands. Felt his body. Now he was gone. But he hadn't left. And she sometimes wondered if that was him, beating on her heart. And she wondered what would happen if he stopped. Every night she came here. Parked. And stared at the window. Hoping to see some sign of life.