The Madness of Crowds

As they trudged through the snow toward Clara's pretty little cottage, Ruth lost her footing. Haniya grabbed her before she fell. She held Ruth's hand for the rest of the way, and wondered if maybe the key was not in being held, but in holding.

Armand knew the terror of that first step. He also knew that the key to a full life was taking it. The trick wasn’t necessarily having less fear, it was finding more courage.

But correct and right were two different things. As were facts and truth.

The trick wasn’t necessarily having less fear, it was finding more courage.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir hadn't much seen the use of libraries, though he'd never have said that to Annie or her parents, who saw les biblioteques as sacred places. He hadn't grown up going to one, and now, with the internet and easy access to information, he couldn't imagine why libraries still existed. That is, until he'd gone with Annie and Honore to a children's hour at their local library. He'd seen the wonder in his son's eyes as the librarian read to them. He'd seen Honore's excitement at getting to choose books himself to take out. How he clutched them to his chest, as though he could read with his heart. Through his infant son, Jean-Guy discovered that libraries held treasures. Not just the written word, but things that couldn't be seen.

They’re kind. Content. They don’t judge. They don’t hide their feelings. There’s no hidden agenda. Complete acceptance. If that isn’t grace, I don’t know what is. I’m not saying people with Down syndrome are perfect or always easy. That would be to trivialize them, make them sound like pets. What I am saying is that in my experience they make better humans than most.” He smiled again. “Than me. And I think that’s worth fighting for, don’t you?

It’s about what happens when gullibility and fear meet greed and power.

I’m sorry.’ ‘I was wrong.’ ‘I don’t know.’” As he listed them, Chief Inspector Gamache raised a finger, until his palm was open. “‘I need help.

Long dead and buried in another town My mother isn’t finished with me yet.

As a diversion, few things were as effective as chocolate cake.

First you scare them, then you offer them your false hope. It’s disgusting. But it works. And now the politicians, familiar with the power of fear, have bought your potion wholesale.

when people died, they didn’t go away. They were very much alive in the minds, in the hearts, in the vivid memories of those left behind. And they were not always easy to live with. Some ghosts had demands.

What is essential is invisible to the eye. Knowledge, ideas, thoughts. Imagination. All invisible. All lived in libraries. But

Though dour and childless himself, the grocer was unfailingly kind and patient with children. As though instead of having none, he had them all.

What people do for power. How they’re willing to mutilate themselves, physically, intellectually, morally, for power and position.

Ruth lost her footing. Haniya grabbed her before she fell. She held Ruth’s hand for the rest of the way, and wondered if maybe the key was not in being held, but in holding.

Isabelle [Lacoste] sat quietly for a moment, looking into the naked woods. Only in the winter was it possible to see both the forest and the trees. Homicide, she thought, was a perpetual winter.

Professor Robinson was revealing, not creating, the anger. The fear. And yes, perhaps even the cowardice they kept hidden away. She was like some genetic mutation awakening illnesses that would have normally lain dormant.

Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds.

And now here is my secret, a very simple secret. It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.

It’s good to be reminded now and then that such things exist.” “What things?” “Beauty. Peace.” She held his eyes. “Goodness. But they’re fragile and can so easily disappear, unless people are willing to do what’s necessary to defend them.

Thus human courts acquit the strong, And doom the weak, as therefore wrong.

unbalanced, in that she sees quite clearly what’s wrong with the world but can’t seem to see what’s right.

Though the pandemic was now over, it had left behind a population worn down. People were tired of being self-disciplined, of self-isolating. Of social distancing and wearing masks. They were exhausted, shell-shocked, from months and endless months of worrying about their children, their parents, their grandparents. Themselves. They were battered and bruised from losing relatives, losing friends. Losing jobs and favorite haunts. Tired of being isolated and driven near crazy with loneliness and despair. They were tired of being afraid.

I’m sorry.’ ‘I was wrong.’ ‘I don’t know.

All shall be well. And all shall be well. And all manner of thing shall be well. It was a quote from one of Gamache’s favorite writers, the Christian mystic Julian of Norwich. Who’d offered hope in a time of great suffering.