Oh, I’m not afraid of death! What have I got to live for after all? I suppose you believe it’s very wrong to kill a person who has injured you-even if they’ve taken away everything you had in the world?
I always think loyalty’s such a tiresome virtue.
She was a lucky woman who had established a happy knack of writing what quite a lot of people wanted to read.
In the midst of life, we are in death.
He was very much a man of moods, possibly owing to what is styled the artistic temperment. I have never seen, myself, why the possession of artistic ability should be supposed to excuse a man from a decent exercise of self-control.
I know there’s a proverb which that says ‘To err is human,’ but a human error is nothing to what a computer can do if it tries.
Women can accept the fact that a man is a rotter, a swindler, a drug taker, a confirmed liar, and a general swine, without batting an eyelash, and without its impairing their affection for the brute in the least. Women are wonderful realists.
Hercule Poirot: I am an imbecile. I see only half of the picture. Miss Lemon: I don’t even see that.
If you are to be Hercule Poirot, you must think of everything.
I live now on borrowed time, waiting in the anteroom for the summons that will inevitably come. And then – I go on to the next thing, whatever it is. One doesn’t, luckily, have to bother about that.
Most successes are unhappy. That’s why they are successes – they have to reassure themselves about themselves by achieving something that the world will notice.
Curious things, habits. People themselves never knew they had them.
Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend.
It’s so much nicer to be a secret and delightful sin to anybody than to be a feather in his cap.
At the small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen. It was an ugliness of distinction – it fascinated rather than repelled.
I am not one to rely upon the expert procedure. It is the psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the cigarette ash.
But I know human nature, my friend, and I tell you that, suddenly confronted with the possibility of being tried for murder, the most innocent person will lose his head and do the most absurd things.
I believe, Messieurs, in loyalty – to one’s friends and one’s family and one’s caste.
A man when he is making up to anybody can be cordial and gallant and full of little attentions and altogether charming. But when a man is really in love he can’t help looking like a sheep.
One of the saddest things in life, is the things one remembers.