Louise Penny

“I've seen enough successful writers who no longer seem to care when they are recognized with an award, and I think that's just tragic.”

“Winning doesn't mean my book is better than anyone else's. It means I'm very fortunate. And I should be very, very aware of that. And grateful.”

“That was why she was happy. He now knew that happiness ad kindness went together. There was not one without the other. For Jean-Guy it was a struggle. For Annie it seemed natural.”

“…struck. Once. And into that blow he put his childhood, his grief, his loss. He put his mother’s sorrow and his sister’s longing. The menorah, weighed down with that, crushed the Hermit’s skull.”

“When someone stabs you it's not your fault that you feel pain.”

“Not everything buried is actually dead. For many, the past is alive.”

“But we don't have to react. That's what I'm saying. A police force, like a government, should be above that. Just because we're provoked doesn't mean we have to act. -- Still Life”

“Who hurt you, once, so far beyond repairthat you would meet each overturewith curling lip?While we, who knew you well, your friends, (the focus of your scorn)could see your courage in the face of fear,your wit, and thoughtfulness, and will remember you with something close to love.”

“That was the danger. Not that betrayals happened, not that cruel things happened, but that they could outweigh all the good. That we could forget the good and only remember the bad.”

“Bang. You’re dead.’Gamache swung around, but had recognised the voice an instant after he’d begun to turn.‘You’re a sneak, Jean Guy. I’m going to have to put a cow bell on you.’‘Not again.’ It wasn’t often he could get the drop on the chief. But Beauvoir had begun to worry. Suppose he snuck up on Gamache sometime and he had a heart attack? It would certainly take the fun out of it.”

“Every decade of my life I attempted to write a novel. But I had nothing to say. I was far too self-absorbed, and now I realize I was writing for others, so that they'd applaud me, see my genius, tell me how wonderful I am, or be jealous of my success.”

“She’d forgotten to love, but she also forgot to hate. (about Clara’s mother, who had dementia)”

“Eventually he'd let the answering machine take over and had hidden in his studio. Where he's hidden all his life. From the monster. He could feel itin their bedroom now. He could feel its tail swishing by him. Feel its hot, fetid breath.All his life he knew if he was quiet enough, small enough, it wouldnn't see him. If he didn't make a fuss, didn't speak up, it wouldn't hear him, wouldn't hurt him. If he was beyond criticism and hid his cruelty with a smile and good deeds, it wouldn't devour him. By now he realized there was no hiding. It would always be there, and always find him. He was the monster.”

“People wandered in for books and conversation. They brought their stories to her, some bound, and some known by heart. She recognized some of the stories as real, and some as fiction. But she honored them all, though she didn't buy every one.”

“You know for sure Jane would be annoyed she gave you all her money and you’re not even enjoying it. Should have given it to me.’ Myrna had shaken her head in mock bewilderment. ‘I’d have known what to do with it. Boom, down to Jamaica, a nice Rasta man, a good book—’‘Wait a minute. You have a Rasta man and you’re reading a book?’‘Oh, yes. Each has a purpose. For instance, a Rasta man is great when he’s hard, but not a book.’Clara had laughed. They shared a disdain for hard books. Not the content, but the cover. Hardcovers were simply too hard to hold, especially in bed.‘Unlike a Rasta man,’ said Myrna.”

“A good novel is a good novel, pointe finale. And I think what I'm writing is exactly that.”

“I turned down all the requests for the rights to the books, for years, mostly because they wanted the rights to the characters, and to turn it into a TV series. This would have allowed them to do anything they wanted with the characters, and that just wasn't an option for me.”

“Wait, Armand, he heard behind him but kept walking, ignoring the calls. Then he remembered what Emile had meant to him and still did. Did this one bad thing wipe everything else out?That was the danger. Not that betrayals happened, not that cruel things happened, but that they could outweigh all the good. That we could forget the good and only remember the bad.But not today. Gamache stopped.”

“A journalist also needs to be disciplined, and so do I. I am, essentially, lazy. Without discipline I'd be just a mass of gummy bears on the sofa instead of on book tour with my eighth novel.”

“All Armand’s life Honoré had lived in light. Unchallenged….Armand put out his hand, and touched the door. The last room, the last door [in the longhouse]. The last territory to explore didn't hold monstrous hate or bitterness or rancid resentments. It held love. Blinding, beautiful love.”