A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)

by Louise Penny

‘At two in the afternoon my art is brilliant, at two in the morning it’s crap.’

he knew he’d walked right into the book he’d used to comfort himself when the world seemed cold and hard and unfair.

In my teens my drug of choice was acceptance, in my twenties it was approval, in my thirties it was love, in my forties it was Scotch.

So much more comforting to see bad in others; gives us all sorts of excuses for our own bad behavior. But good? No, only really remarkable people see the good in others.

Toss a toaster into your spouse’s bath these days and all you’ll get is a blown fuse, a ruined appliance and a very pissed-off sweetheart.

There’s a fine line between noble perseverance and insanity,

dull was one of the greatest insults. It ranked right up there with kind and nice.

Departing was not an insignificant event in Quebec. But then neither was arriving.

Armand Gamache wondered whether CC de Poitiers was at that very moment trying to explain herself to a perplexed God and a couple of very angry seals.

Beauvoir tried to look both interested and knowledgable. He was neither.

the feel of Grandma’s cottage, as though nothing bad could happen here.

community hadn’t died of boredom. Just talking about curling was sucking the will to live right out of him.

‘Let every man shovel out his own snow, and the whole city will be passable,’ said Gamache. Seeing Beauvoir’s puzzled expression he added, ‘Emerson.’ ‘Lake and Palmer?’ ‘Ralph and Waldo.’

‘But it doesn’t make any sense,’ said Gamache, struggling with the information. ‘You’ve never been a teenage girl.’

I was tired of seeing the Graces always depicted as beautiful young things. I think wisdom comes with age and life and pain. And knowing what matters.’

She hoped it would have a happy ending. That the woman would find love and happiness. Or maybe just herself. That would be enough.