Quotes from Ngaio Marsh

I always, by an involuntary act of defensiveness, return to my everyday self: so, I find, have I withdrawn from writing about experiences which have most closely concerned and disturbed me. I have been deflected by my own reticence.

if you go through life looking for insults, you may be comfortably assured of finding them.

I acquired quite a lot of technical skill and got quite a long way with my painting, but I never felt I was doing what New Zealand was about with my paint.

Above all things -- read. Read the great stylists who cannot be copied rather than the successful writers who must not be copied.

We do not wait for inspiration. We work because we've jolly well got to. But when all is said and done, we toil at this particular job because it's turned out to be our particular job, and in a weird sort of way I suppose we may be said to like it.

You may be able to write a novel, you may not . You will never know until you have worked very hard indeed and written at least part of it. You will never really know until you have written the whole of it and submitted it for publication.

It's like one of those affairs in books, said Bailey disgustedly.Someone trying to think up a new way to do a murder. Silly, I call it. What do you say, Roper? said Alleyn. To my way of thinking, sir, said Sergeant Roper, these thrillers are ruining our criminal classes.

There are people to whom one need not show off. It's a great comfort sometimes.

Why do you want to become an author? I will accept only one answer. If it is because you feel you can write better than you can do anything else then go ahead and do it without frills and flourishes. Stick to your present job and write in your spare time: but do it as if it is a whole time job.

Stop talking. Can't you see I'm detecting?

It is a curious thing that when one speaks from the heart it is invariably in the worst of taste.

You must be able to write. You must have a sense of form, of pattern, of design. You must have a respect for and a mastery over words.

My poor fat Alfie! He was not a romantic husband, but he was so kind and understanding. He never minded whether I was amusing or dull. He thought it impossible that I could be dull. I didn't have to bother about any of that.

With a slightly accentuated jaw-line, Inspector Alleyn advanced to the footlights and gazed into the swimming darkness of the stalls. Mr. Bathgate, he said. Silence. Mr. Bathgate, lied Alleyn, I can see you. You're not looking in my direction at all, declared an indignant voice. Come

She's extremely common, but that doesn't matter. Lots of common people are charming. Like bounders. I believe no woman ever falls passionately in love with a man unless he has just the least touch of the bounder somewhere in his composition.

Everybody talks to me about 'P.M.s,'" complained Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn to Inspector Fox on Monday afternoon, "and I never know whether they mean post-mortem or Prime Minister. Really, it's very difficult when you happen to be involved with both.

I tell you what," said Troy more amiably. "I've always been frightened of the whole business. Love and so on." "The physical side?" "Yes, that, but much more than that. The whole business. The breaking down of all one's reserves. The mental as well as the physical intimacy." "My mind to me a kingdom is.

Any faithful account of police investigations, in even the most spectacular homicide case would be abysmally dull. I should have thought you'd seen enough of the game to realize that. The files are a plethora of drab details, most of them entirely irrelevant. Your crime novelist gets over all that by writing grandly about routine work and then seleting the essentials. Quite rightly. He'd be the world's worst bore if he did otherwise.

He was shown into the drawing-room, an apartment of great elegance and no character. Above the mantelpiece hung a portrait in pastel of Cicely O'Callaghan. The artist had dealt competently with the shining texture of the dress and hair, and had made a conscientious map of the face. Alleyn felt he would get about as much change from the original as he would from the picture.

in spite of all her misgivings, she glowed and thought to herself. 'This is my place. This is where I belong.

Don't you know about The Others? They're the ones that leave nails and broken glass on the road. They hide things when you're in a hurry. They've only got one arm and one leg each, you know. So they take single gloves and stockings, and they're frightfully keen on keys and unanswered letters.

same smell of lavender and honeysuckle and oily wool. We're crutching

A woman with a huge angry short-haired tabby in her arms came through from the surgery. The newly named Lucy's fur rose. She made a noise that suggested she had come to the boil. The tabby suddenly let out a yell. Dogs made ambiguous comments in their throats. "Oh Lor'!" said the newcomer. She grinned at Mr. Whipplestone. "Better make ourselves scarce," she said, and to her indignant cat: "Shut up, Bardolph, don't be an ass.

Stop! Hersey cried out. Stop! something appalling is happening to all of us. We're saying things we'll regret for the rest of our lives. We're merely speaking the truth [William Compline] It's the sort that shouldn't be spoken. It's a beastly lop-sided exaggerated truth.