Bury Your Dead

It's a blessing Madame Gamache and I had at our wedding. It was read at the end of the ceremony. Now you will feel no rain For each of you will be shelter for the other Now you will feel no cold For each of you will be warmth for the other Now there is no loneliness for you Now there is no more loneliness. Now you are two persons, but there is one life before you. Go now to your dwelling place To enter into the days of your togetherness. And may your days be good and long upon this earth. (Apache Blessing)

Things are strongest where they're broken.

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

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.

Who hurt you, once, so far beyond repair that you would meet each overture with 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.

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

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.

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.

The women in the room chatted about love, about childhood, about losing parents, about Mr. Spock, about good books they'd read. They mothered each other.

I’m sorry. I was wrong. I need help. I don’t know.

...while forgetting the past might condemn people to repeat it, remembering it too vividly condemned them to never leave.

I respect people who have such passion. Emile was saying. "I don't. I have a lot of interests, some I'm passionate about, but not to the exclusion of everything else. I sometimes wonder if that's necessary for geniuses to accomplish what they must, a singularity of purpose. We mere mortals just get in the way. Relationships are messy, distracting. He travels the fastest who travels alone, quoted Gamache. You sound as though you don't believe it. It depends where you're going, but no, I don't. I think you might go far fast, but eventually you'll stall. We need other people. ... We all need help.

told him the four sentences that lead to wisdom. He’d said them only once, never repeating them. But once had been enough for Gamache. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I need help. I don’t know.

Sometimes life goes in a direction not of our choosing,” said the minister, softly. “That’s why we need to adapt. It’s never too late to change direction.

His heart filled his chest and ran to the end of his tail and the very tips of his considerable ears. It filled his head, squeezing out his brain. But Henri, the foundling, was a humanist, and while not particularly clever was the smartest creature Gamache knew. Everything he knew he knew by heart.

Gamache nodded. It was what made his job so fascinating, and so difficult. How the same person could be both kind and cruel, compassionate and wretched. Unraveling a murder was more about getting to know the people than the evidence. People who were contrary and contradictory, and who often didn't even know themselves.

They were cunning,deceitful,arrogant and nearly incomprehensible,especially the Anglos. They were dangerous because they hid their thoughts,hid their feelings behind a smiling face. Who could tell what was really going on in their heads? They said one thing and thought another. Who knew what rancid thing lived ,curled up,in the space between words and thoughts.

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

If less was more, she had a great deal.

It is sweet and right to die for your country…. an old and dangerous lie. It might be necessary, but it is never sweet and rarely right. It’s a tragedy.

And Beauvoir knew then the man was a saint. He's been touched by any number of medical men and women. All healers, all well intentioned, some kind, some rough. All made it clear they wanted him to live, but none had made him feel that his life was precious, was worth saving, was worth something.

…while men and women perished, and cities fell, symbols endured, grew. Symbols were immortal.

…in the library…surrounded by things far more dangerous than what roamed the school corridors. For here thoughts were housed.

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

Champlain missing was so much more potent than Champlain found.

They kill. To feel safe. It almost never worked.

Sometimes life goes in a direction not of our choosing. That’s why we need to adapt. It’s never too late o change direction… [Gamache] knew the young minister was wrong, sometimes it was too late.

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