The Question That Haunted Every Investigation Was

Every Year The Hunters Shot Cows And Horses And Family Pets And Each Other. And Unbelievably, They Sometimes Shot Themselves, Perhaps In A Psychotic Episode Where They Mistook Themselves For Dinner

The Night Is A Strawberry.

A Journalist Also Needs To Be Disciplined, And So Do I. I Am, Essentially, Lazy. Without Discipline I'd Be Just A Mass Of Gummy Bears On The Sofa Instead Of On Book Tour With My Eighth Novel.

Aid Workers, When Handing Out Food To Starving People, Quickly Learn That The People Fighting For It At The Front Are The People Who Need It Least. It's The People Sitting Quietly At The Back, Too Weak To Fight, Who Need It The Most. And So Too With Tragedy.

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.