Kingdom of the Blind (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #14)

by Louise Penny

It was snowing more heavily now, but Gamache had not put on his gloves. They’d fallen to the ground when he’d gotten out of the car. It was how most Québécois lost mitts and gloves and even hats. They rested on laps in the car and were forgotten when it came time to get out.

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

A huge amount of work, of pain, physical and emotional, lay ahead. But it might as well be done in the sunlight.

‘Be very, very careful who you let into your life. And learn to make peace with whatever happens. You can’t erase the past. It’s trapped in there with you. But you can make peace with it. If you don’t,’ he said, ‘you’ll be at perpetual war.’”

Clean sheets, thought Gamache. The scent of wood smoke. Feeling Henri’s head on my slippers. He went through his own private code. A sort of rosary.

It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.

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.

Erasmus’s Adagia. His collection of proverbs and sayings.

In the kingdom of the blind, Amelia recited to herself as she trudged along— —the one-eyed man is king, Gamache read.

started with the four statements that lead to wisdom: I don’t know. I need help. I was wrong. I’m sorry. And ended with him saying, simply, “Matthew 10:36.”

“Madame Zardo,” the librarian had said, practically bowing when Ruth limped in. Elderly, unsteady. Stooped. But when she sat at the table, behind “her” laptop, she was nimble. Strong. Unyielding. Relentless. No bully could hide. Ruth’s hat was so black it was white.

“‘Who hurt you once so far beyond repair / That you would greet each overture with curling lip.’”

“There’s a book we’re all told to read when we first get into the business. Tony gave me his copy as a thank-you gift when I agreed to use my license to do his trades. It’s called Extraordinary Popular Delusions and The Madness of Crowds.

Armand turned to him. “As a good rule of thumb, if you have to lie, you might be doing something wrong.”

“I see you’re reading the book I gave you,” Ruth said to Jean-Guy as they got up. She pointed to the coffee table. “You gave him The Gashlycrumb Tinies?” asked Stephen. “By Edward Gorey? Oh, I think I really do love you,” he said to Ruth.

Far from leaving Michael behind, he became even more infused in the books. All the things we had together came together, in Three Pines. Love, companionship, friendship. His integrity. His courage. Laughter. I realized, too, that the books are far more than Michael. Far more than Gamache. They’re the common yearning for community. For belonging. They’re about kindness,

acceptance. Gratitude. They’re not so much about death, as life. And the consequences of the choices we make.

We are very fortunate, aren’t we? To have found each other in Three Pines.