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

by Louise Penny

The memory of the heart was far stronger than whatever was kept in the mind. The question was, what did people keep in their heart?

“F.I.N.E.” stood for “Fucked-Up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Egotistical.”

It was always what you couldn’t see that hurt you.

As with so much in life, it was, Myrna knew, a matter of inches between safe and sorry.

When the house was burning, it was not the best time to lay blame.

Sometimes the best thing we can do is nothing.”

In the hectic, often frantic pace of life, there was something deeply peaceful about not being able to do anything.

Yes, the real danger always came from the thing you couldn’t see.

Things are strongest where they’re broken.

“What I was going to say is that my mentor had this theory that our lives are like an aboriginal longhouse. Just one huge room.” He swept one arm out to illustrate scope. “He said that if we thought we could compartmentalize things, we were deluding ourselves. Everyone we meet, every word we speak, every action taken or not taken lives in our longhouse. With us. Always. Never to be expelled or locked away.”

‘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.

“This isn’t a punishment, Cadet, it’s a consequence.

Marcus Aurelius. Meditations.

“Harvey is an old movie. It’s about a man—” “Elwood P. Dowd,” said Myrna. “—whose best friend is a six-foot rabbit,”

“It’s a reminder that if someone’s happy, maybe that’s the only reality that matters,”

“When this is over,” he said, picking up a huge tire iron from his truck, “you owe me a lemon meringue pie.”

What the warm bath couldn’t do, the scent of lavender, the dark chocolate brownie, and the huge glass of red wine did.

some clients didn’t want freedom from their resentments, they wanted validation.

Erasmus’s Adagia.

His sponsor in AA had warned him about H.A.L.T. Hungry, angry, lonely, and tired were triggers.

I don’t know. I need help. I was wrong. I’m sorry. And ended with him saying, simply, “Matthew 10:36.”

In grief people were themselves and not themselves.

It was, he thought, the sort of intense love that could curve back on itself and turn to hate.

“caramel—” “Nooo,” he moaned. “—and burnt-fig ice cream.”

“And now you see why lies matter. The actual fib might not matter, but what it shows us is that what you say can’t always be trusted. You can’t always be trusted.”

Horowitz had left instructions in his will, and only then would the Gamaches find out.

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