Beauvoir knew that almost everyone did four things, when faced with modern technology. First they created passwords. Then they forgot them. Then, on being forced to create new ones, they simplified and went with only one, which opened everything. And then they wrote it down. And hid that paper somewhere. That way they only had to remember the place, not the password.
It was like archeology. There was digging and there was dirt. And there was broken things.
I’m saying people change.” She held up her hands to ward off Clara’s protests. “I know, it’s easy to say. And it doesn’t undo the damage. But we’ve seen changes of heart. Changes of perception. It happens. Racists, homophobes, misogynists, they can change. And some do.” “Truth and reconciliation,” said Clara. “Yes. The truth must come first. And then, maybe, reconciliation. Maybe.
Unlike most of us, who tend to be transparent, people rarely see through a psychopath,” she continued. “He’s masterful. People trust and believe him. Even like him. It’s his great skill. Convincing people that his point of view is legitimate and right, often when all the evidence points in the other direction. Like Iago. It’s a kind of magic.
One day that ego of yours’ll kill you. That’s all it is, you know. You pretend it’s selfless, you pretend to be the great teacher, the wise and patient Armand Gamache, but you and I both know it’s ego. Pride. Be careful, my friend. She’s dangerous. You’ve said so yourself.
Maybe this was now normal for Olivier. Maybe every now and then he simply wept. Not in pain or sadness. The tears were just overwhelming memories, rendered into water, seeping out.
Gamache had asked not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he wanted to see if Peter would lie to him. He had. And if he’d lie about that, what else had he lied about?
Photos sat on the piano and shelves bulged with books, testament to a life well lived.
The memory of the heart was far stronger than whatever was kept in the mind. The question was, what did people keep in their heart?
This village has known loss, people killed before their time, accidents, war, disease. Three Pines isn’t immune to any of that. But you seem to accept it as part of life and not hang on to the bitterness.
Like the street his gallery was on, Fortin had an attractive front, hiding quite a foul interior. He was opportunistic. He fed on the talent of others. Got rich on the talent of others. While most of the artists themselves barely scraped by, and took all the risks.
In winter the very ground seemed to reach up and grab the elderly, yanking them to earth as though hungry for them. Shattering a hip or wrist, or neck. Best to take it slow.
And her arms would open wide, in welcome. It seemed involuntary, as though her mother were exposing her heart to her daughter.
Three craggy pine trees had stood at the far end of the green for as long as anyone remembered, like wise men who’d found what they were looking for.
It’s vital to hear your own language, to see it written, to see it valued.
This part of rue Ste.-Catherine wasn’t so much an artery as an intestine.
Ruth whacked the seat beside her on the sofa, in what could only be interpreted as an invitation. It was like receiving a personalized Molotov cocktail. Gamache.
It was a perfect time of year, when late summer flowers were still blooming and the leaves were turning, and the grass was still green, but the nights were chilly and sweaters were out and fires were beginning to be lit. So that the hearths at night resembled the forests in the day, all giddy and bright and cheerful. Soon everyone would head back to the.
In time, it wasn’t all that long ago, but measured in events, it was an eternity.
Yes, the real danger always came from the thing you couldn’t see.