Quotes About Journey

Gabri and I follow the way of Häagen Das. It's occasionally a rocky road.

Living our lives was like living in a long house. We entered as babies at one end, and we exited when our time came. And in between we moved through this one, great, long room. Everyone we ever met, and every thought and action lived in that room with us. Until we made peace with the less agreeable parts of our past they'd continue to heckle us from way down the long house. And sometimes the really loud, obnoxious ones told us what to do, directing our actions even years later.

The lines of his face were the longitude and latitude of his life.

Love and worry. They went hand in hand. Fellow travelers.

Clara didn't carry a grudge. They were too heavy and she had too far to go.

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.

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

You weren't lost. You were exploring. There's a difference.

There is always a road back. If we have the courage to look for it, and take it.

Next morning Jean-Guy Beauvoir was waiting by the car with two travel mugs of café au lait from the bistro and two chocolatines. "Just because we're going to Mordor doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves on the way," he said, opening the passenger-side door for Armand.

We can all fall," said the abbot. "But perhaps not as hard and not as fast and not as far as someone who spends his life on the ascent.

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.

There is always a road back. If we have the courage to look for it, and take it. I'm sorry. I was wrong. I don't know." He paused again. "I need help. Those are the signposts. The cardinal directions.

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.

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

I always think a case is like driving from here to the Gaspé. A great long distance and I can't see the end. But I don't have to. All I have to do is keep throwing light in front of me, and follow the headlights. Eventually I'll get there.

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

They were home. He always felt a bit like a snail, but instead of carrying his home on his back, he carried it in his arms.

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.

He had a lot to ponder and he knew that everything is solved by walking.

He felt in Three Pines he had a shot at being himself. What he hadn't counted on was it taking so long to figure out who 'he' was.

Living our lives was like living in a long house. We entered as babies at one end, and we exited when our time came. And in between we moved through this one, great, long room. Everyone we ever met, and every thought and action lived in that room with us. Until we made peace with the less agreeable parts of our past they'd continue to heckle us from way down the long house. And sometimes the really loud, obnoxious ones told us what to do, directing our actions even years later. Gamache

carried on round pianos

He only stopped when he'd met himself again. The Armand who'd been standing on the side of the quiet road, in the middle of nowhere, waiting. At the intersection of truth and wishful thinking. Where the straight road splayed. And he knew then. They were all going down." p.40