Her voice was slightly accented but her French was perfect. Someone who'd not just learned the language but loved it. And it showed with every syllable. Gamache knew it was impossible to split language from culture. That without one the other withered. To love the language was to respect the culture.

But there was no hiding from Conscience. Not in new homes and new cars. In travel. In meditation or frantic activity. In children, in good works. On tiptoes or bended knee. In a big career. Or a small cabin. It would find you. The past always did. Which was why... it was vital to be aware of actions in the present. Because the present became the past, and the past grew. And got up, and followed you. And found you... Who wouldn't be afraid of this?

But you want murderous feelings? Hang around librarians," confided Gamache. "All that silence. Gives them ideas.

The leaves had fallen from the trees and lay crisp and crackling beneath his feet. Picking one up he marveled, not for the first time, at the perfection of nature where leaves were most beautiful at the very end of their lives.

Foolish people are never harmless. Stupidity accounts for as many crimes as anger and greed.

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

I'm just like this. I have no talent for choosing my battles. Life seems, strangely, like a battle to me. The whole thing.