－有時我也有類似疑問，別人喜歡我，是因為我是我，還是因為我做的事？Is their affection conditional?
Olivier felt like a little boy again. While other kids ran around collecting frogs and sticks and grasshoppers, he’d sought reassurance. Affection. He’d gather up the words and actions, even from strangers, and he’d stuff them into the hole that was growing. It had worked. For a while. Then he’d needed more than just words.
So far so good, thought Morin. Seems the idiot agent act is working. Now if only it wasn’t an act.
At least his family compared well to people who actually killed each other, rather than just thought about it.
And what a tale those eyes told Gamache. In them he saw the infant, the boy, the young man, afraid. Never certain what he would find in his father. Would he be loving and kind and warm today? Or would he sizzle the skin off his son? With a look, a word. Leaving the boy naked and ashamed. Knowing himself to be weak and needy, stupid and selfish.
So that the boy grew an outer hull to withstand assault. But while those skins saved tender young souls, Gamache knew, they soon stopped protecting and became the problem. Because while the hard outer shell kept the hurt at bay, it also kept out the light. And inside the frightened little soul became something else entirely, nurtured only in darkness.
Dust swirled in the little light that struggled through the window.
The oil lamps threw light very unlike anything an electric bulb produced. This light was gentle. The edges of the world seemed softer.
He was like Pinocchio. A man made of wood, mimicking humanity. Shiny and smiling and fake. And if you cut into him you’d see rings. Circles of deceit and scheming and justification.
”Most unhappiness comes from not being able to sit quietly in a room.－Pascal”
Myrna knew everyone’s tastes, both the ones they declared and their actual ones.
Any progress on what ＂woo＂ might mean?” “There’s a film director named John Woo. He’s from China. Did Mission Impossible II,” said Morin seriously, as though giving them vital information.
－摘錄這句，只想說，為何不是He's from Hong Kong呢？
And as she walked she thought about Emily Carr. And the ridicule she’d endured at the hands of gallery owners, critics, a public too afraid to go where she wanted to take them. Deeper. Deeper into the wilderness.
－這讓我有興趣了解Emily Carr的身平。書名The Brutal Telling也來自她的話。她本來與父親親厚，但後來卻疏遠父親。沒人知道為什麼。我上網查，找到這段字：Carr was extremely close to her father before an incident in her adolescence — which remains unclear but which Carr later referred to as the "brutal telling" — irrevocably destroyed their relationship. Her sensitivity and her devotion to art isolated her from her sisters, who failed to understand either her work or her desire to pursue it in spite of financial strain. Throughout her life, Carr remained steadfast in her commitment to art despite her family's lack of support.（http://www.museevirtuel-virtualmuseum.ca/sgc-cms/expositions-exhibitions/emily_carr/en/about/index.php）
Lies annoyed the Inspector the truth seemed to piss him off even more. Especially when it was inconvenient.
How about violin?” asked Morin. Beauvoir looked at him again as at an unexpectedly bright chimp.
There was general commiserating and all agreed Clara had done the right thing. Then they agreed she should call in the morning and beg his forgiveness. Then they agreed she shouldn’t.
baking? We could. It’s what I love to do. But Sarah’s Boulangerie was already here. She’d lived in the village all her life. The bakery belonged to her grandmother. So we opened a bistro instead. All our croissants, and pies, and breads are baked by Sarah. We adjusted our dreams to fit the dreams already here.
“I’m afraid of not recognizing Paradise.”
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.
“My favorite quote from Thoreau is also from Walden,” said Gamache. “A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone.”