... evil was, perhaps, necessarily always more impressive than good.
I have wanted . . . to commit a murder myself. I recognized this as the desire of the artist to express himself! . . . But-incongruous as it may seem to some-I was restrained and hampered by my innate sense of justice. The innocent must not suffer.
The urge to write one's autobiography, so I have been told, overtakes everyone sooner or later.
As you yourself have said, what other explanation can there be?' Poirot stared straight ahead of him. 'That is what I ask myself,' he said. 'That is what I never cease to ask myself.
I have always been so sure - too sure... But now I am very humble and I say like a little child: "I do not know..."
I believe, Messieurs, in loyalty---to one's friends and one's family and one's caste.
Everybody always knows something," said Adam, "even if it's something they don't know they know.
Hasting - There are times when it is one's duty to assert oneself.
What an absurdity to go and bury oneself in South America, where they are always having revolutions.
Unless you are good at guessing, it is not much use being a detective.
And yet," said Poirot, "suppose an accident-" "Ah, no, my friend-" "From your point of view it would be regrettable, I agree. But nevertheless let us just for one moment suppose it. Then, perhaps, all these here are linked together - by death.
Where do one's fears come from? Where do they shape themselves? Where do they hide before coming out into the open?
Hercule Poirot: I am an imbecile. I see only half of the picture. Miss Lemon: I don't even see that.
Do you believe in the value of truth, my dear, or don’t you?” “Of course I believe in the truth,” said Rhoda, staring. “Yes, you say that, but perhaps you haven’t thought about it. The truth hurts sometimes – and destroys one’s illusions.” “I’d rather have it all the same.” said Rhoda. “So would I. But I don’t know that we’re wise.” Mrs. Oliver; Rhoda Dawes
Curious things, habits. People themselves never knew they had them. [Witness for the Prosecution, also published in The Hound of Death and Other Stories.]
Best of an island is once you get there - you can't go any farther...you've come to the end of things.
I never can stand seeing people pleased with themselves,” said Joanna. “It arouses all my worst instincts.
When a man is really in love he can't help looking like a sheep.
Fey...a Scotch word...It means the kind of exalted happiness that comes before disaster. You know--it's too good to be true.
Everybody is very much alike, really. But fortunately, perhaps, they don't realise it. - Miss Marple
Your not reliable. You wouldn't be at all a comfortable sort of person to live with.
I looked at her. Sheila was my girl--the girl I wanted--and wanted for keeps. But it wasn't any use having illusions about her. Sheila was a liar and probably always would be a liar. It was her way of fighting for survival--the quick easy glib denial. It was a child's weapon--and she'd probably never got out of using it. If I wanted Sheila, I must accept her as she was--be at hand to prop up the weak places. We've all got our weak places. Mine were different from Sheila's, but they were there.
If only-if only, Hastings, you would part your hair in the middle instead of at the side! What a difference it would make to the symmetry of your appearance. And your moustache. If you must have a moustache, let it be a real moustache-a thing of beauty such as mine.
That is what I mean. A bath! The receptacle of porcelain, one turns the taps and fills it, one gets in, one gets out and ghoosh - ghoosh - ghoosh, the water goes down the waste pipe!" "M. Poirot are you quite mad?" "No, I am extremely sane.
there is no fanatic like a religious fanatic.
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