I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.
Do you know my friend that each one of us is a dark mystery, a maze of conflicting passions and desire and aptitudes?
I was thinking, that when my time comes, I should be sorry if the only plea I had to offer was that of justice. Because it might mean that only justice would be meted out to me.
People should be interested in books, not their authors.
The rottenness comes from within.
One must make one’s own mistakes.
Everyone likes talking about himself. – Hercule Poirot.
It is completely unimportant. That is why it is so interesting.
You have a tendency, Hastings, to prefer the least likely. That, no doubt, is from reading too many detective stories.
One knows so little. When one knows more it is too late.
Our weapon is our knowledge. But remember, it may be a knowledge we may not know that we possess.
I often wonder why the whole world is so prone to generalise. Generalisations are seldom if ever true and are usually utterly inaccurate.
The heart of a woman who loves will forgive many blows.
Any coincidencce is worth noticing. You can throw it away later if it is only a coincidence.
Evil never goes unpunished, Monsieur. But the punishment is sometimes secret.
Everybody is very much alike, really. But fortunately, perhaps, they don’t realise it. – Miss Marple.
You should employ your little grey cells.
Your not reliable. You wouldn’t be at all a comfortable sort of person to live with.
People who can be very good can be very bad too.
Now I am old-fashioned. A woman, I consider, should be womanly. I have no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning to night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a billingsgate fishwoman blush!
To keep something wild is far more difficult than to preserve it.