Hell Is Empty (Walt Longmire, #7)

by Craig Johnson

“We must always love something. In those matters seemingly removed from love, the feeling is secretly to be found, and man cannot possibly live for a moment without it.” She turned, and I could see the tears shining on her cheeks. “More Pascal?” “More Pascal.”

I lowered the binoculars and remembered one of my late wife’s slogans about smoking: “Cigarettes are killers that travel in packs.”

“Life is like that.” He flipped through a few more limp pages. “You collect things as you go—the things you think are important—and soon they weigh you down until you realize that these things you cared so much about mean nothing at all. Our natures are our natures.” He grunted. “And they are all we are left with.”

Readers are invited to decide for themselves the relative truth of the Native American mysticism that pervades the Walt Longmire novels. What’s never in doubt is Walt Longmire’s tenacity, keen awareness and quick thinking, lively sense of humor, and steadfast adherence to a set of values that sustains him in the face of even the gravest peril. Walt understands how even the most deranged and violent of people think and feel and act. To watch him in action—and to listen to him narrate his own story—is one of the many pleasures of the Walt Longmire mysteries.