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The gap between how we appear and how we really feel. Those are foundations of the Gamache books.
He exhaled all the darkness he’d stored up.
Her dear friend and neighbor Jane Neal had been murdered slightly over a year before,
Myrna was used to giving advice. She’d been a psychologist in Montreal, until she’d realized most of her clients didn’t really want to get better.
He’d be proud of her and finally see her as a fellow artist.
filling the night air with old hymns and laughter and puffs of breath plump with song and snowflakes.
wearing a fluffy white sweater made of either cashmere or kittens.
A layer of pure white was both beautiful and dangerous. You never really knew what lurked beneath. A Quebec winter could both enchant and kill.
homes were full of the people there and the people not there.
She wore little make-up, comfortable with the face she’d been given.
her job at the Bibliothèque nationale,
Straight and scraggly, everything about her was thin.
They’d both swelled since they’d first met. There was no way either would get into their wedding clothes. But they’d grown in other ways as well, and Gamache figured it was a good deal. If life meant growth in all directions, it was fine with him.
Little Yvette Nikolev had become the foreigner. All her life she’d stand just on the outside.
He’d made all that up
It was his lifeboat, made of words, which had kept him afloat on their sea of misery and suffering.
‘I call it The Three Graces,’
‘Mother is Faith, Em is Hope and Kaye is Charity.
The vessel, like a vase, was formed by their bodies, and the space he’d noticed was the crack, to let the light in.
‘I used to dream I’d saved my parents,’
We can’t let someone drown where we were saved.’
