Were there books?

F480DF2B-242F-45C4-AA6E-B7DA1A372A56From Louise Penny’s third Chief Inspector Gamache novel, The Cruelest Month:

p. 79
Gamache loved to see inside the homes of people involved in a case. To look at the choices they made for their most intimate space. The colors, the decorations. The aromas. Were there books? What sort?

How did it feel?

He had been in shacks in the middle of nowhere, carpets worn, upholstery torn, wallpaper peeling off. But stepping in he also noticed the smell of fresh coffee and bread. Walls were taken up with immense smiling graduation photos and on rusty pocked TV trays stood modest chipped vases with cheery daffodils or pussy willows or some tiny wildflower picked by worn hands for eyes that would adore it.

And he’d been in mansions that felt like mausoleums.

p. 80
Grief sometimes took time to tell. The first days for relatives or close friends of murder victims were blessedly numb. They almost always held together, going through the motions of a normal life, so that a casual observer would never know disaster had just rammed into them. Most people fell to pieces gradually, like the old Hadley house.

Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

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Detail from Seacoast at Trouville (Claude Monet; 1881)

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Detail from Summer Night’s Dream (The Voice) (Edward Munch; 1893)

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Detail from Ravine (Vincent Van Gogh; 1889)

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I Dreamed I Could Fly (Jonathan Borofsky; 2000) put me in mind of the ceremony in the cheesy but frightening sci-fi flick Logan’s Run.

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Detail from Jackson Pollock’s Mural (1943)

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An Olmec mask

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Detail from Double Portrait (Max Beckmann; 1946)

All of the above are images I took during a recent visit to the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.