Quotes by Louise Penny

What killed people wasnt a bullet, a blade, a fist to the face. What killed people was a feeling. Left too long. Sometimes in the cold, frozen. Sometimes buried and fetid. And sometimes on the shores of a lake, isolated. Left to grow old, and odd.

She’d forgotten to love, but she also forgot to hate. (about Clara’s mother, who had dementia)

Maybe this was now normal for Olivier. Maybe every now and then he simply wept. Not in pain or sadness. The tears were just overwhelming memories, rendered into water, seeping out.

Dont be so sure, said Gamache. Its a little humbling to realize the pedestal isnt quite so high after all.Brebeuf chuckled. Welcome to earth, Armand. Its a little dirty down here.

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.

They stared ahead. Silent. Morin had never realized murderers were caught in silence. But they were.

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.

But we dont have to react. Thats what Im saying. A police force, like a government, should be above that. Just because were provoked doesnt mean we have to act. -- Still Life

The fault lies with us, and only us. Its not fate, not genetics, not bad luck, and its definitely not Mom and Dad. Ultimately its us and our choices...but the most powerful spectacular thing is that the solution rests with us as well.

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 didnt even know themselves.

Murder was deeply human. A person was killed and a person killed. And what powered the final thrust wasnt a whim, wasnt an event. It was an emotion. Something once healthy and human had become wretched and bloated and finally buried. But not put to rest. It lay there, often for decades, feeding on itself, growing and gnawing, grim and full of grievance. Until it finally broke free of all human restraint. Not conscience, not fear, not social convention could contain it. When that happened, all hell broke loose. And a man became a monster.

I often think we should have tattooed on the back of whatever hand we use to shoot or write, I might be wrong.

Were all blessed and were all blighted, Chief Inspector, said Finney. Everyday each of us does our sums. The question is, what do we count?

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. Its like a form of insanity. - Peter MorrowYou call it insanity, I call it optimism. - Clara Morrow

Homes, Gamache knew, were a self portrait. A persons 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.

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

Life is choice. All day, everyday. Who we talk to, where we sit, what we say, how we say it. And our lives become defined by our choices. Its as simple and as complex as that. And as powerful. so when Im observing thats what Im watching for. The choices people make

Wait, Armand, he heard behind him but kept walking, ignoring the calls. Then he remembered what Emile had meant to him and still did. Did this one bad thing wipe everything else out?That was the danger. Not that betrayals happened, not that cruel things happened, but that they could outweigh all the good. That we could forget the good and only remember the bad.But not today. Gamache stopped.

She taught me that life goes on, and that I had a choice. To lament what I no longer had or be grateful for what remained.