secrets

Houses are like people, Agent Lemieux. They have secrets. I'll tell you something I've learned.'Armand Gamache dropped his voice so that Agent Lemieux had to strain to hear.'Do you know what makes us sick, Agent Lemieux?'Lemieux shook his head. Then out of the darkness and stillness he heard the answer.'It's our secrets that make us sick.

What was best for Charlotte? The answer was obvious. And for once he needed to overcome his selfish desires. "Go home, Charlotte." "So thats it?" She straightened, her lovely pride stiffening her frame. "You are finished with me? Finally?" He discarded the glass and moved so quickly across the room, around the furniture, that he saw the surprise that she couldnt hide. "No." He touched her chin, made her meet his eyes. "I would never be finished with you, Charlotte" Something far more contorted than simple confusion graced her face. "Roman." And her voice was soft, questioning. "Do you think you might come to love me? If you werent ...giving...me back? Someday? Just a little?" He was frozen. Absolutely frozen. He couldnt speak a word. She lifted her chin a notch and pressed a soft kiss to his lips at his nonresponse. And still he remained frozen. He saw her walk to the door and grab Bills arm. Heard their footsteps filing down the hall. Leaving. Leaving. Never hearing his whisper that he already did.

She was beginning to have that feeling that comes after midnight, of one's thoughts opening out, flowering, groping out loud for some new discovery, some new truth that is really as old as all the hundreds of years girls have been confiding to one another in the relaxing intimacy of the night.

Every day it got swept. All of the dirt each piece of dust and even the tiniest bread crumb of secret midnight snacks. It lay under that rug.Years went by nobody noticed it__ more defeated crumbled appearance with all the misshaped lumps and bumps. Eventually a boy drips and falls over it people are so surprised and nobody knows what why or how it could have happened. Not even the lady with the sweeping brush.

Rather, that rigidity had simply been given sporadic spots of wrath, coupled with the sprinkling of secrets, and placed in a cold corner to slowly stew and starve___eaving it no choice but to eventually break through with blooms of fury. And on the night of Cornelius__ arrival, it at long last broke through.

There are some secrets so toxic you can__ share. Especially if you love who it is you__ have to share with.

Will you promise to keep this to yourself, to not tell anyone of what we are?_ By his words you__ think he was giving me a choice. Like I could say,no deal, honey bunch, I__ off to shout your secret from the rooftops, and he__ be like, oh no please don__ do that. Inreality, he__ have to kill me.

We are our secrets, and, if all goes well, we will take them with us to where no-one can touch them.

Can I possibly be a good writer if I'm not healed form the story I'm telling? Will I be able to go deep enough if people find out the truth?

But nothing will help quite so much as just keeping quiet, talking with other people as little as possible, with yourself as much as possible. For conversation has a kind of charm about it, an insinuating and insidious something that elicits secrets from us just like love or liquor. Nobody will keep the things he hears to himself, and nobody will repeat just what he hears and no more. Neither will anyone who has failed to keep a story to himself keep the name of his informant to himself. Every person without exception has someone to whom he confides everything that is confided to himself. Even supposing he puts some guard in his garrulous tongue and is content with a single pair of ears, he will still be the creator of a host of later listeners _ such is the way in which what was but a little while before a secret becomes common rumor.

What happens in the dark should not be brought to light.

Sometimes, some rare times, a secret stays undiscovered because it is something too big for the mind to hold. It is too strange, too vast, too terrifying to contemplate. All of us have secrets in our lives. We're keepers or kept from, players or played.

Secrets,_ Kohler finally said, __re a luxury we can no longer afford.

Figuring out the secret of the universe is like trying to read a brand after the steer's been made into hamburger."~Will Durham from Crossroads, A Music Novel

There are no such things as secrets only truths that have yet to be revealed.

It turns out that when there is some conspicuous gap or contradiction at the center of someone's existence, there is probably a very specific, obvious reason for it, and the reason you're avoiding confronting it directly is that it's something you don't want to know.

But time does not disclose its secrets to humankind, and the possible turned impossible.

Eleanor should never have told them about Park's house, but she'd been dying to tell somebody. (This was how people ended up in jail after committing the perfect crime.)