Agatha Christie Quotes

"Is he then an unhappy man?" Poirot said: "So unhappy that he has forgotten what happiness means. So unhappy that he does not know he is unhappy." The nun said softly: "Ah, a rich man…"

Harold Waring, like many other Englishmen, was a bad linguist.

Words had become to him a means of obscuring facts — not of revealing them. He was an adept in the art of the useful phrase — that is to say the phrase that falls soothingly on the ear and is quite empty of meaning.

And then, startling in its crisp transatlantic tones, a voice said: “Stick ’em up.” They swerved around. Schwartz, dressed in a peculiarly vivid set of striped pyjamas stood in the doorway. In his hand he held an automatic. “Stick ’em up, guys. I’m pretty good at shooting.” He pressed the trigger — and a bullet sang past the big man's ear and buried itself in the woodwork of the window. Three pairs of hands were raised rapidly.

On the seat opposite him was an American tourist. The pattern of his clothes, of his overcoat, the grip he carried, down to his hopeful friendliness and his naïve absorption in the scenery, even the guidebook in his hand, all gave him away and proclaimed him a small town American seeing Europe for the first time. In another minute or so, Poirot judged, he would break into speech. His wistful dog-like expression could not be mistaken.

He had not remembered her name, but he had seen her dance — had been carried away and fascinated by the supreme art that can make you forget art.

Even the sensible and the competent have been given tongues by le bon Dieu — and they do not always employ their tongues wisely.

"I — I don’t regret what I did. I think that you are a kind man, Mr. Poirot, and that possibly you might understand. You see, I’ve been so terribly afraid." “Afraid?” “Yes, it’s difficult for a gentleman to understand, I expect. But you see, I’m not a clever woman at all, and I’ve no training and I’m getting older — and I’m so terrified for the future. I’ve not been able to save anything — how could I with Emily to be cared for? — and as I get older and more incompetent there won’t be any one who wants me. They’ll want somebody young and brisk. I’ve — I’ve known so many people like I am — nobody wants you and you live in a one room and you can’t have a fire or any warmth and not very much to eat and at last you can’t even pay the rent on your room … There are Institutions, of course, but it’s not very easy to get into them unless you have influential friends, and I haven’t. There are a good many others situated like I am — poor companions — untrained useless women with nothing to look forward to but a deadly fear…"

Take this Hercules — this hero! Hero, indeed! What was he but a large muscular creature of low intelligence and criminal tendencies!

Without interest (hers not the type to wonder why!) but with perfect efficiently, Miss Lemon had fulfilled her task.

In my end is my beginning — that's what people are always saying. But what does it mean? And just where does my story begin? I must try and think...

"Tout de même," said Poirot, "since I cannot find anything, eh bien, then the logic falls out of the window."

“Well, what are you doing? What have you done?” “I am sitting in this char,” said Poirot. “Thinking,” he added. “Is that all?” said Mrs. Oliver. “It is the important thing,” said Poirot.

It was the technique of a man who selected thoughts as one might select pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. In due course they would be reassembled together so as to make a clear and coherent picture. At the moment the important thing was the selection, the separation.

Mrs. Oliver in her own opinion was famous for her intuition. One intuition succeeded another with remarkable rapidity, and Mrs. Oliver always claimed the right to justify the particular intuition which turned out to be right!