Margitte's Reviews > Kingdom of the Blind

I decided at #9 not to continue reading when the ambiance of the books changed and I strangely felt left out of our beloved Three Pines intrigue. The stories went global and somehow felt like 'our home' was opened up to all the world and strangers were sleeping in our beds, or something :-)

However, I have introduced so many readers in my immediate circles here in reality to Louise Penny's books, that when one recently asked me about her latest novels, I had to get into it again myself. She became so wildely popular around here, that I could not tell people about my decision to stop reading them. So here I am again.

I missed out on a few. However, lately, when extremely limited time permitted, I indulged in non-fictional reading, and for some time now I wanted to read a good murder mystery again. The Kingdom of the Blind became the next read. It was like going home and eat the family's comfort food. So by the way, in my big family we never 'enslaved' mom to do all the cooking. We all cooked together. One huge big hang-out behind the cooking pots and stoves. The only meal mom insisted on cooking was Sunday lunch. She was a maestro in everything she ever did. The men in our family were excellent chefs themselves and proud to take the heat of the kitchen with the rest of us.

In Three Pines all the neighbors were still there with their idiocyncracies, like Ruth Zardo-with her alter ego, Rose (the fuck fuck fuck duck; Inspector Armand Gamache, his wife-Rein-marie; his dog, his son-in-law(Jean-Guy Beauvoir), his daughter, Anne; the retired psychologist and book shop owner, Myrna Landers, the famous otherwordly artist Clara Morrow; the bistro buddies- Gabri Dubeau & Olivier; Gamache's other mean-team colleague-Isabelle Lacoste; his latest recruit from the underworld, Amelia Choquet.

But then a hermet sort of resident Bertha Baumgarter, the Baronness, passed away and named Gamache, Myrna and an unknown young man from Montreal, Benedict Pouliot, as the liquidators of her estate, which lead to a fratricide- in a home, which became a house, and was now simply a building. And not even that for much longer...

The mystical presence of the late Bertha Baumgarter was like releasing a chimera in the small village. Some thought it was Godzilla meeting Mothra. For some it was like bindweed in a poisonous garden. Some thought it was a fairy tale gone wrong: "Most fairy tales are pretty dark," said Armand, ... "Have you read any to Honoré? Rumpelstiltskin? It starts with a lie and ends with a death."

In Glass Houses Armand made a serious faut pas, which left some of his colleagues dead, or seriously wounded, and himself in serious trouble. He got suspended. And now, in the land of the blind, the one-eye had to become king again and save Canada, and the rest of the region from a drug disaster.

The taxi let Armand off where it had picked him up. Outside the offices of Horowitz Investments. They were just down rue Sherbrooke from the Musée des Beaux-Arts and Holt Renfrew. On Montréal’s Golden Mile, where glass towers were fronted by old Greystone mansions.

A cab ride, and a lifetime, away from where he’d just been. What separated them, Gamache knew, wasn’t hard work but good fortune and blind luck. That picked some and not others. That introduced some to opioids and not others. Five years ago, two years, even a year ago, the futures of the ghastly figures on the street looked very different. And then someone introduced them to a painkiller. An opioid. And all the promise, all the good fortune of birth and affluence—of a loving family, of education—were no match for what came next.

Never rains but pours. At least, in the cold Quebec winter it never was just minus something. It was deadly cold... and below the soil the bindweed was waiting...

After finishing the novel, and reading some of the comments, I was glad that I was not Louise Penny. In an afterthought she writes: I want to thank my neighbors, for their patience and kindess. For saving a place at the table for both Michael and me. And I want to thank you. For your company. We are very fortunate, aren't we? To have found each other in Tree Pines.

It is widely known for the Armand Gamache-groupies, like yours truly, that his character was loosely based on Penny's late husband who passed away from complications of Alzheimers. In this after thought, she thus thanked her readers for keeping a place in our lives for her and Gamache. And how right she is.

We want more of the same all the time, yet complain when she delivers on just that. Then we're bored and want something new, something exciting, and when she delivers, we're in a tiff again about that.

Louise Penny has a rapport with her readers like no other. She explains in the acknowledgments how this book came about, talking directly to us.

My heart was light. Even as I wrote about some very dark themes, it was with gladness. With relief. That I get to keep doing this. Far from leaving Michael behind, he became even more infused in the books. All the things we had came together, in Three Pines. Love, companionship, friendship. His integrity. His courage. Laughter. I realized, too, that the books are far more than Michael. Far more than Gamache. They're the common yearning for community. For belonging. They're about kindness, acceptance. Gratitude. They're not so much about death, as life. And the consequences of the choices we make.

And this, I realized, was why I wanted to rate this novel five stars. The Armand Gamache series is like no other I have ever read in this genre, except perhaps for Martin Walker's Bruno, Chief Of Police series playing out in rural France. Similar concept, similar winning recipe.

After reading this author, I feel whole again, but enlightened. Happy, but wizened. And so utterly grateful that there is still a place in this dark literary world we can call home. Three Pines will always be part of home to me, even if the author decides to move on and take us on a new adventure.