The People of Three Pines: Ruth Zardo

As far as she knew, Ruth had always been like this. ‘Then why does everyone like her?’ Myrna had asked. Clara had laughed and shrugged, ‘You know there are days I ask myself the same thing. What a piece of work that woman can be. But she’s worth the effort, I think.’ – Still Life

‘You’re wrong there,’ said Ruth, following Myrna’s gaze. ‘This used to be my drug of choice. In my teens my drug of choice was acceptance, in my twenties it was approval, in my thirties it was love, in my forties it was Scotch. That lasted a while,’ she admitted. ‘Now all I really crave is a good bowel movement.’ – A Fatal Grace

There was Ruth on the village green, talking to someone. Only she was alone. There was nothing odd about that. It actually would have been strange had there been someone willing to listen to her. – The Cruelest Month

Peter listened as Clara talked again about Fortin visiting her studio this past spring and seeing the portrait of their friend Ruth Zardo, the old and withered poet. Embittered and embattled and brilliant. – A Rule Against Murder

Standing like a ramrod beside them and staring unblinking at the bistro was Ruth Zardo. And her duck, looking quite imperious. Ruth wore a sou’wester that glistened in the rain. Clara spoke to her, but was ignored. Ruth Zardo, Gamache knew, was a drunken, embittered old piece of work. Who also happened to be his favorite poet in the world. Clara spoke again and this time Ruth did respond. Even through the glass Gamache knew what she’d said. “Fuck off.” – The Brutal Telling

Ruth appeared at Beauvoir’s chair, a scowl on her deeply wrinkled face. Her cropped white hair lay flat on her head, looking like exposed skull. She was tall and stooped and walked with a cane. The only good news was that she wasn’t in her nightgown. – Bury Your Dead

He’d actually been looking forward to seeing Ruth again. He examined the tall, thin, elderly woman leaning on her cane. Ruth’s hair was white and thin and cut close to her head, so that it looked like her skull was exposed. Which seemed to Beauvoir about right. Nothing inside Ruth’s head was ever unexposed or unexpressed. It was her heart she kept hidden. – A Trick of the Light

HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN

It was supposed to be just the three of them, which was bad enough, but then Ruth Zardo and her duck had arrived and the evening went from bad to a fiasco. Rosa, the duck, had muttered what sounded like “Fuck, fuck, fuck” the whole night, while Ruth had spent the evening drinking, swearing, insulting and interrupting. – How the Light Gets In

Below them, Ruth Zardo limped from her run- down cottage, followed by Rosa, her duck. The elderly woman looked around, then glanced up the dirt road out of town. Up, up the dusty path, Gamache could see her old steel eyes travel. Until they met his. And locked on. – The Long Way Home

The long, low brick building across the Rivière Bella Bella from the village was the home of the Three Pines Volunteer Fire Brigade, of which Ruth Zardo was the chief, being familiar, everyone figured, with hellfire. – The Nature of the Beast

Ruth loved words and used them intentionally. Even the thoughtless words were used with thought. – A Great Reckoning

There was a growing resemblance between Ruth and Rosa. Both had scrawny necks. Their heads white. Their eyes beady. They waddled when they walked. They shared a vocabulary. If it wasn’t for Ruth’s cane they’d be almost indistinguishable. – Glass Houses

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. The name Ruth Zardo was uttered with equal parts admiration and dread. Like conjuring a magical creature that was both creative and destructive. – Kingdom of the Blind

Myrna Landers heaved a sigh and shifted her considerable weight in her armchair. As much as she longed to contradict Ruth, she couldn’t. The fact was, their drunk and disorderly old neighbor in Three Pines was a brilliant poet. Though not much of a human being. – A Better Man

Ruth made a noise that could have been a laugh. Or indigestion. – A Better Man

Ruth Zardo, Stephen’s friend, was also their close friend and neighbor in their Québec village of Three Pines. An elderly poet, she was embittered, often drunk. Definitely nuts. And brilliant.

You were a moth
brushing against my cheek
in the dark
I killed you
not knowing you were only a moth,
with no sting.

She and Stephen had proven a good match and fast friends. And while often angry, she was no devil. Perhaps, he’d often thought, just the opposite. – All the Devils Are Here

“Drink?” he said, handing Clara one of the glasses of spiked punch.
“Merci.”
He gave the other to Reine-Marie.
“What about me?” demanded Ruth.
He looked at the vat of scotch the old poet was gripping. He recognized it. It was actually a flower vase. From their home. – The Madness of Crowds

So many summer evenings sitting on the dilapidated front porch of the ramshackle house, Ruth in her rocker, her cane across her lap. In another era it would have been a shotgun, thought Harriet. And she’d have had a corncob pipe. Rosa, the mad duck, would hop up and settle on Harriet’s lap. Exhausted after a day of terrorizing the villagers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” one of them muttered, though it wasn’t always clear which one. – A World of Curiosities

Ruth Zardo. The poet. The laureate. Who from her ramshackle home in this little lost village managed to see things others did not.

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?

She was one of Armand’s favorite poets, if not favorite people. Though he had to admit, she was close there too. – The Grey Wolf