"Life is choice. All day, every day. Who we talk to, where we sit, what we say, how we say it. And our lives become defined by our choices. It's as simple and as complex as that. And as powerful. So when I'm observing, that's what I'm watching for. The choices people make."

"She knew that kindness kills. All her life she'd suspected this and so she'd only ever been cold and cruel. She'd faced kindness with cutting remarks. She'd curled her lips at smiling faces. She'd twisted every thoughtful, considerate act into an assault. Everyone who was nice to her, who was compassionate and loving, she rebuffed.Because she'd loved them. Loved them with all her heart, and wouldn't see them hurt. Because she'd known all her life that the surest way to hurt someone, to maim and cripple them, was to be kind. If people were exposed, they die. Best to teach them to be armored, even if it meant she herself was forever alone. Sealed off from human touch."

"Homes, Gamache knew, were a self portrait. A person's choice of color, furnishing, pictures, every touch revealed the individual. God, or the devil, was in the details. And so was the human. Was it dirty, messy, obsessively clean? Were the decorations chosen to impress, or were they a hodgepodge of personal history? Was the space cluttered or clear? He felt a thrill every time he entered a home during an investigation."

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

"And all the other tools that mistook information for knowledge."

"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."

"We have a solemn pact.' Kaye nodded to Mother and looked over at Em talking to some neighbors. 'If one of us is unconscious in the hospital, the others will make sure it's pulled.''The plug?' Ruth asked.'The chin hair,' said Kaye, eyeing Ruth with some alarm. 'You're off the visitors list. Mother, make a note."

"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."

"Myrna could spend happy hours browsing bookcases. She felt if she could just get a good look at a person's bookcase and their grocery cart, she'd pretty much know who they were."

"A lot of what we know to be history isn't it serves a purpose. Events are exaggerated, heroes fabricated, goals are rewritten to appear more noble than they actually were. All to manipulate public opinion, to manufacture a common purpose or enemy. And the cornerstone of a really great movement? A powerful symbol. Take away or tarnish that and everything starts to crumble, everything's questioned."

"I just sit where I'm put, composedof stone and wishful thinking:that the deity who kills for pleasurewill also heal,that in the midst of your nightmare,the final one, a kind lionwill come with bandages in her mouthand the soft body of a woman,and lick you clean of fever, and pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neckand caress you into darkness and paradise."

"In winter the very ground seemed to reach up and grab the elderly, yanking them to earth as though hungry for them."

"Grief was dagger-shaped and sharp and pointed inward. It was made of fresh loss and old sorrow. Rendered and forged and sometimes polished. Irene Finney had taken her daughter's death and to that sorrow she'd added a long life of entitlement and disappointment, of privilege and pride. And the dagger she'd fashioned was taking a brief break from slashing her insides, and was now pointed outward."

"We're all blessed and we're all blighted, Chief Inspector,' said Finney. 'Everyday each of us does our sums. The question is, what do we count?"

"Shakespeare: the best way to peace is to have a still and quiet conscience. Or none at all, thought Gamache."

"I saw a lot of men die there. Most men. Do you know what killed them? Despair, said Finney. 'They believed themselves to be prisoners. I lived with those men, ate the same maggot-infested food, slept in the same beds, did the same back-breaking work. But they died and I lived. Do you know why? 'You were free. 'I was free. Milton was right the mind is its own place. I was never a prisoner. Not then, not now."

"Don't be so sure,' said Gamache. 'It's a little humbling to realize the pedestal isn't quite so high after all.'Brebeuf chuckled. 'Welcome to earth, Armand. It's a little dirty down here."

"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."

"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."

"The reason Armand Gamache could go there was because it wasn't totally foreign to him. He knew it because he'd seen his own burned terrain, he'd walked off the familiar and comfortable path inside his own head and heart and seen what festered in the dark. And one day Jean Guy Beauvoir would look at his own monsters, and then be able to recognize others. And maybe this was the day and this was the case. He hoped so."

"I've been treating you with courtesy and respect because that's the way I choose to treat everyone. But never, ever mistake kindness with weakness."

"Don't mistake dramatics for a conscience."

"Beauvoir left their home wanting to call his wife and tell her how much he loved her, and then tell her what he believed in, and his fears and hopes and disappointments. To talk about something real and meaningful. He dialed his cell phone and got her. But the words got caught somewhere south of his throat. Instead he told her the weather had cleared, and she told him about the movie she'd rented. Then they both hung up."

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

"You weren't lost. You were exploring. There's a difference."

"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."

"They'd crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn't. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs. And they knew something the rest didn't. They knew how lucky the rest of the world was."

"She put her hands together and Saul hoped she wasn't about to say-'Namaste,' said CC, bowing. 'He taught me that. Very spiritual.'She said 'spiritual' so often it had become meaningless to Saul.'He said, CC Das, you have a great spiritual gift. You must leave this place and share it with the world. You must tell people to be calm.'As she spoke Saul mouthed the words, lip-synching to the familiar tune.'CC Das, he said, you above all others know that when the chakras are in alignment all is white. And when all is white, all is right.'Saul wondered whether she was confusing an Indian mystic with a KKK member. Ironic, really, if she was."

"There are generally three parties to child abuse: the abused, the abuser and the bystander."

"They stared ahead. Silent. Morin had never realized murderers were caught in silence. But they were."

"His cell phone didn't work in Three Pines, and neither did email. He almost expected to see messages fluttering back and forth in the sky above the village, unable to descend."

"Life is change. If you aren't growing and evolving, you're standing still, and the rest of the world is surging ahead."

"Rules meant order. Without them they'd be killing each other. It began with butting in, with parking in disabled spaces, with smoking in elevators. And it ended in murder."

"Joy doesn't ever leave, you know. It's always with you. And one day you'll find it again."

"Believing sarcasm and rude remarks kept the monsters at bay. They didn't."

"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."

"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."

"Jesus, is Gamache hiring fetuses now?"

"What killed people wasn't a bullet, a blade, a fist to the face. What killed people was a feeling. Left too long. Sometimes in the cold, frozen. Sometimes buried and fetid. And sometimes on the shores of a lake, isolated. Left to grow old, and odd."

"Photos sat on the piano and shelves bulged with books, testament to a life well lived."

"Do you know the sums that I do? 'I count my blessings."

"Our lives are like a house. Some people are allowed on the lawn, some onto the porch, some get into the vestibule or the kitchen. The better friends are invited deeper into our home, into our living room.''And some are let into the bedroom,' said Gamache."

"Where there is love there is courage,where there is courage there is peace,where there is peace there is God.And when you have God, you have everything."

"Now here's a good one:you're lying on your deathbed.You have one hour to live.Who is it, exactly, you have neededall these years to forgive?"

"They were home. He always felt a bit like a snail, but instead of carrying his home on his back, he carried it in his arms."

"Murder was deeply human. A person was killed and a person killed. And what powered the final thrust wasn't a whim, wasn't an event. It was an emotion. Something once healthy and human had become wretched and bloated and finally buried. But not put to rest. It lay there, often for decades, feeding on itself, growing and gnawing, grim and full of grievance. Until it finally broke free of all human restraint. Not conscience, not fear, not social convention could contain it. When that happened, all hell broke loose. And a man became a monster."

"All Armand's life Honor 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."

"After more than a thousand years,' he continued, 'an enemy finally broke through. Not because of superior firepower. Not because the Manchus were better fighters or strategists. They weren't. The Manchus breached the Great Wall and took Beijing because someone opened a gate. From the inside. As simple as that. A general, a traitor, let them in and an empire fell."

"To be silent. In hopes of not offending, in hopes of being accepted. But what happened to people who never spoke, never raised their voices? Kept everything inside?Gamache knew what happened. Everything they swallowed, every word, thought, feeling rattled around inside, hollowing the person out. And into that chasm they stuffed their words, their rage."

"I often think we should have tattooed on the back of whatever hand we use to shoot or write, 'I might be wrong."