Ruth Zardo Quotes

Who hurt you, once, so far beyond repair that you would meet each overture with curling lip? While we, who knew you well, your friends, (the focus of your scorn) could see your courage in the face of fear, your wit, and thoughtfulness, and will remember you with something close to love.

I just sit where I'm put, composed of stone and wishful thinking: That the deity that kills for pleasure will also heal, That in the midst of your nightmare, the final one, a kind lion will pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neck, And caress you into darkness and paradise. ~ Ruth Zardo, poet and character in All The Devils Are Here

Ruth Zardo. A gifted poet. One of the most distinguished in the nation. But that gift had come wrapped in more than a dollop of crazy.

Ring the bells that still can ring, Forget your perfect offering, There’s a crack in everything, That’s how the light gets in.’ ‘What an extraordinary poem. Ruth Zardo?’ ‘Leonard Cohen. Clara used it in her piece. She wrote it on the wall behind the three of you, like graffiti.

I’ll keep it all inside; festering, rotting; but I’m really a nice person, kind, loving. ‘Get out of my way, you motherfucker.’ Oops, sorry…’ ‘Ruth Zardo, did you say?’ said Gamache stunned. Clara had just quoted from one of his favorite poems. Now he knelt down and continued it: ‘that just slipped out, escaped, I’ll try harder, just watch, I will. You can’t make me say anything. I’ll just go further away, where you will never find me, or hurt me, or make me speak.

Who hurt you once, so far beyond repair / that you would greet each overture with curling lip? The lines from Ruth Zardo’s poem exploded in his head. In his chest. Me, he realized with horror. I did.

Now here's a good one: you're lying on your deathbed. You have one hour to live. Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive?

Francois Marois' eyes narrowed. 'That's the woman in Clara's portrait,' he said. 'It is. Ruth Zardo.' 'The poet? I thought she was dead.' 'It's a natural mistake,' said Gamache, waving at Ruth who gave him the finger. 'Her brain seems fine. It's only her heart that stopped.

The shootings, the denials, the scoffing at all evidence of institutionalized misogyny, the pushback against gun control, the patronizing attitude of editors and politicians, only served to radicalize those women. Before the shooting, they were students. Now they were warriors. Before I was not a witch, wrote Ruth Zardo. But now I am one.

I'm glad you keep the dumb beast on a leash. He's a menace.' Gamache turned to see Ruth and Rosa closing in on them over the frozen road. [...] 'Henri is not a dumb beast, Madame,' said Gamache. 'I know that,' snapped the poet. 'I was TALKING to Henri.

I just sit where I'm put, composed of stone and wishful thinking: That the deity that kills for pleasure will also heal, That in the midst of your nightmare, the final one, a kind lion will pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neck, And caress you into darkness and paradise.

Nothing I ever gave was good for you,’ quoted Gamache. ‘It was like white bread to a goldfish.’ Beside him Ruth Zardo stiffened, then in a low growl she finished her own poem. ‘They cram and cram, and it kills them, and they drift in the pool, belly up, making stunned faces and playing on our guilt as if their own toxic gluttony was not their fault.

I'm glad you keep the dumb beast on a leash. He's a menace.' Gamache turned to see Ruth and Rosa closing in on them over the frozen road. 'Henri is not a dumb beast, Madame,' said Gamache. 'I know that,' snapped the poet. 'I was TALKING to Henri.

As much fun as it would be to arrest Ruth for murder, he had to grudgingly give up that idea.

So serious was the suddenly and suspiciously sober poet, that she'd forgotten to forget Myrna's name.

More frightening than the thought was Ruth's use of Myrna's actual name. So serious was the suddenly and suspiciously sober poet, that she'd forgotten to forget Myrna's name.

Small puffs came from Ruth's mouth, and he presumed it was a chuckle. Or sulfur.

For Christmas that year, Betsy had given her a copy of the latest work by her favorite poet, Ruth Zardo. The slim volume was called I’m F.I.N.E.

I just sit where I’m put, composed of stone and wishful thinking: That the deity that kills for pleasure will also heal, That in the midst of your nightmare, the final one, a kind lion will come with bandages in her mouth And lick you clean of fever, And pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neck, And caress you into darkness and paradise.

some other brown stuff that might not be mud into her tangled hair. All around, villagers wandered with their baskets of brightly colored eggs, looking for the perfect hiding places. Ruth Zardo sat on the bench in the middle of the green tossing