Quotes from Louise Penny

That's what I believe," said Ruth. "Peter didn't. Here was a man who was given everything. Talent, love, a peaceful place to live and create. And all he had to do was appreciate it." "And if he didn't?" "He would remain stone. And the deities would turn on him. They do, you know. They're generous, but they demand gratitude.

Entitlement was, she knew, a terrible thing. It chained the person to their victimhood. It gobbled up all the air around it. Until the person lived in a vacuum, where nothing good could flourish. And the tragedy was almost always compounded, Myrna knew. These people invariably passed it on from generation to generation. Magnified each time. The sore point became their family legend, their myth, their legacy. What they lost became their most prized possession. Their inheritance.

But Beauvoir could feel what Ruth was sensing. Something was radiating off Gamache. Was it rage he felt from the chief? Jean-Guy wondered. It certainly wasn't fear. It was actually, Beauvoir realized with some surprise, extreme calm.

The sore point became their family legend, their myth, their legacy. What they lost became their most prized possession. Their inheritance.

After spending most of her life scanning the horizon for slights and threats, genuine and imagined, 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. Her

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.

Je me souviens,

surrounded by candy and wrappers, as though a chocolate storm had hit.

But Beauvoir could feel what Ruth was sensing. Something was radiating off Gamache. Was it rage he felt from the chief? Jean-Guy wondered. It certainly wasn't fear. It was actually, Beauvoir realized with some surprise, extreme calm. He was like the center of gravity in the room.

But Annie hates children." "Well, she's not very good with them, but I don't think she hates them. She adores Florence and Zora." "She has to," said Beauvoir. "They're family. She's probably depending on them, in her old age. She'll be bitter Auntie Annie, with the stale chocolates and the doorknob collection. And they'll have to look after her. So she can't drop them on their heads now.

Tea lights were lit and placed on the table and around the garden, so that it looked like large fireflies had settled in for the evening.

Friend of Bill was code. For a member of AA. Of which this Anton was clearly one. It was like finding a member of his tribe, unexpectedly. The two men stood in the warm kitchen, the sleet hitting the windows, and realized that while they knew nothing about each other, they actually knew each other better than almost anyone else on earth.

They are four sentences we learn to say, and mean.' Gamache held up his hand as a fist and raised a finger with each point. 'I don't know. I need help. I'm sorry. And one other.' Gamache thought for a moment but couldn't bring it to mind.

But she went from being a happy, carefree child to an embittered woman. Very solitary, not very likeable apparently. Then, near the end of her life, she wrote to a friend. In the letter she said that her father had said something to her. Something horrible and unforgivable." "The brutal telling.

You need to know this. Everything makes sense. Everything. We just don't know how yet.

Her notebook, on the table, contained neither rhymes nor reason but held, between the worn pages, the lump in the throat.

I don't know, Armand. It made me sick. And sad. And glad I live far—" "From the madding crowd?" Vincent Gilbert smiled and nodded. "Yes. I peek out every now and then, then scuttle back to my little cabin, where I hope so-called civilization won't find me.

But Armand always said people react differently to death, and it was folly to judge anyone and double folly to judge what people do when faced with sudden, violent death. Murder. They weren't themselves.

Everyday for Lucy's entire dog life Jane had sliced a banana for breakfast and had miraculously dropped one of the perfect disks on to the floor where it sat for an instant before being gobbled up. Every morning Lucy's prayers were answered, confirming her belief that God was old and clumsy and smelt like roses and lived in the kitchen. But no more. Lucy knew her God was dead. And she now knew the miracle wasn't the banana, it was the hand that offered the banana.

She was beginning to see how quickly something completely normal could suddenly seem sinister, if you chose to see it that way.

Chief Inspector Gamache knew one thing about hate. It bound you forever to the person you hated.

With patience comes choice, and with choice comes power.

impossible to split language from culture. That without one the other withered. To love the language was to respect the culture.

She recognized the courtesy, but did not want to encourage the view that women were the weaker sex and needed to be protected and coddled. By men. Though as she swayed slightly, fighting the hangover