Sometimes human places, create inhuman monsters.

Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.

The reason Armand Gamache could go there was because it wasn't totally foreign to him. He knew it because he’d seen his own burned terrain, he’d walked off the familiar and comfortable path inside his own head and heart and seen what festered in the dark. And one day Jean Guy Beauvoir would look at his own monsters, and then be able to recognize others. And maybe this was the day and this was the case. He hoped so.

Like any normal fifth grader, I preferred my villains to be evil and stay that way, to act like Dracula rather than Frankenstein's monster, who ruined everything by handing that peasant girl a flower. He sort of made up for it by drowning her a few minutes later, but, still, you couldn't look at him the same way again.

He was drawn to the edge of things. To the places old mariners knew, and warned, “Beyond here be monsters.”… He stepped into the beyond, and found the monsters hidden deep inside all the reasonable, gentle, laughing people. He went where even they were afraid to go.

There was a monster in me that had to be fed by success. There is a monster in us all that has to be fed by something.