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

by Louise Penny

The father of a good friend had developed dementia and died recently. For the last year or so of his life, he no longer recognized family and friends. He was kindly to all, but he beamed at some. They were the ones he loved. He knew them instinctively and kept them safe, not in his wounded head but in his heart.

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.’”

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.

the four statements that lead to wisdom: I don’t know. I need help. I was wrong. I’m sorry.

And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household.

And, indeed, silence fell. Where other investigators pressed and pushed during interrogations, especially when finding a weak spot, Gamache had taught his agents the power of silence. It could be, often was, far more threatening than shouting. Though that too had its place. But not here. Not now. Now silence filled the room.

Loved. Beaten. Cared for. Neglected. University graduate or dropout. All ended up in the gutter. Thanks to the great leveler that was fentanyl.