I suppose what I really am is restless. I want to go everywhere, see everything, do everything. I want to find something. Yes, that’s it, I want to find something.
Unpleasant to feel that people were discussing you.
Then there are some minor points that strike me as suggestive – for instance, the position of Mrs. Hubbard’s sponge bag, the name of Mrs. Armstrong’s mother, the detective methods of Mr. Hardman, the suggestion of Mr. MacQueen that Ratchett himself destroyed the charred note we found, Princess Dragomiroff’s Christian name, and a grease spot on a Hungarian passport.
Ulick Norman Owen – Una Nancy Owen – each time, that is to say, U. N. Owen. Or by a slight stretch of fancy, UNKNOWN!
The truth is people are an extraordinary mixture of heroism and cowardice.
When will a woman lie? Sometimes for herself. Usually for the man she loves. Always for her children.
Fortunately words, ingeniously used, will serve to mask the ugliness of naked facts.
I have, let me confess it in all humility, a pitiful human wish that someone should know just how clever I have been.
That’s the curious part about speaking the truth. No one does believe it.
If the little grey cells are not exercised, they grow the rust.
What you do not understand is that there are things that cannot be bought.
There was only one thing about his own appearance which really pleased Hercule Poirot, and that was the profusion of his moustaches, and the way they responded to grooming and treatment and trimming. They were magnificent. He knew of nobody else who had any moustache half as good.
When you’re in the middle of a nightmare, something ordinary is the only hope. Anyway, ordinary things are the best. I’ve always thought so.
The illusion that freedom is the prerogative of one’s own particular race is fairly widespread. Dr Gerard was wiser. He knew that no race, no country and no individual could be described as free. But he also knew that there were different degrees of bondage.
Truth is seldom romantic.
Ah, but my dear sir, the why must never be obvious. That is the whole point.
Lie is more worth living, more full of interest when you are likely to lose it. It shouldn’t be, perhaps, but it is. When you’re young and strong and healthy, and life stretches ahead of you, living isn’t really important at all. It’s young people who commit suicide easily, out of despair from love, sometimes from sheer anxiety and worry. But old people know how valuable life is and how interesting. – Jane Marple.
You say your life is your own. But can you dare to ignore the chance that you are taking part in a gigantic drama under the orders of a divine Producer? Your cue may not come till the end of the play – it may be totally unimportant, a mere walking-on part, but upon it may hang the issues of the play if you do not give the cue to another player. The whole edifice may crumple. You as you, may not matter to anyone in the world, but you as a person in a particular place may matter unimaginably.
A diary is useful for recording the idiosyncrasies of other people – but not one’s own.
But it is not everything in life that has its ticket, so much. There are things that are not for sale.