Quotes About Miss Marple

If I were at any time to set out on a career of deceit, it would be of Miss Marple that I should be afraid.

Miss Marple always sees everything. Gardening is as good as a smoke screen, and the habit of observing birds through powerful glasses can always be turned to account.

There is, as Miss Marple would say, a lot of human nature in all of us.

Such a sweet letter from Lady Conway... You remember my telling you about her? Her memory's bad. Can't recognize her relations always and tells them to go away." "That might be shrewdness really," said Miss Marple, "rather than a loss of memory.

Miss Marple made a ladylike noise of vexation like a cat sneezing to indicate profound disgust.

And briefly and succinctly, he put Miss Marple's theory of the crime before the doctor, ending up with her final suggestion.

Modern novels. So difficult—all about such unpleasant people, doing such very odd things and not, apparently, even enjoying them. "Sex" as a word had not been mentioned in Miss Marple's young days; but there had been plenty of it—not talked about so much—but enjoyed far more than nowadays, or so it seemed to her. Though usually labelled Sin, she couldn't help feeling that that was preferable to what it seemed to be nowadays—a kind of Duty.

And anyway who the devil should I want to murder?" "That would be a very good question," said Miss Marple. "I have not yet had the pleasure of sufficient conversation with you to evolve a theory as to that." Mr. Rafter's smile broadened. "Conversations with you might be dangerous," he said. "Conversations are always dangerous, if you have something to hide," said Miss Marple.

Miss Marple had her breakfast brought to her in bed as usual. Tea, a boiled egg, and a slice of pawpaw.

I regard St. Mary Mead," he said authoritatively, "as a stagnant pool." He looked at us, prepared for resentment at his statement, but somewhat, I think, to his chagrin, no one displayed annoyance. "That is really not a very good simile, dear Raymond," said Miss Marple briskly. "Nothing, I believe, is so full of life under the microscope as a drop of water from a stagnant pool.

To-tre dager senere mottok frøken Marple et brev med ettermiddagsposten. Hun tok det opp, og som vanlig snudde hun det, kikket på poststempelet og håndskriften, kom til at det ikke var en regning og åpnet konvolutten.

Sanders was hanged," said Miss Marple crisply. "And a good job too. I have never regretted my part in bringing that man to justice. I've no patience with modern humanitarian scruples about capital punishment.

Nobody appeared to Miss Marple likely to be a murdered except possibly Mr.Caspar and that was probably foreign prejudice. Coincidence? thought Miss Marple meditatively, turning the word over in her mouth rather as a child might do to a certain lollipop to decide its flavour. Any coincidence, said Miss Marple to herself, is always worth noticing. You can throw it away later if it is only a coincidence.

These problems were Miss Marple's first introduction to the world of detective story readers. Miss Marple has some faint affinity with my own grandmother, also a pink and white pretty old lady who, although having led the most sheltered and Victorian of lives, nevertheless always appeared to be intimately acquainted with all the depths of human depravity.

The intelligent people on whose intelligence she could rely were all far too busy. Not only had they all got jobs of varying importance, their leisure hours were usually apportioned long beforehand. The unintelligent who had time on their hands were simply, Miss Marple decided, no good.

I enjoyed writing the Miss Marple stories very much, conceived a great affection for my fluffy old lady, and hoped that she might be a success. She was. After the first six stories had appeared, six more were requested, Miss Marple had definitely come to stay.

I wish you would always have Miss Marple and not Poirot," and the other "I wish you would have Poirot and not Miss Marple." I myself incline to her side. I think, that she is at her best in the solving of short problems; they suit her more intimate style. Poirot, on the other hand, insists on a full-length book to display his talents.

Fortunately at Miss Marple's age, there was always some ailment that could be discussed with slight exaggerations on the patient's part. Miss Marple hesitated between "her shoulder" and "her knee," but finally decided upon the knee. Miss Marple's knee, as she would have put it to herself, was always with her.

If I were at any time to set out on a career of deceit, it would be of Miss Marple that I should be afraid.

I noticed how those who know the truth are always treated with suspicion and disdain. That was the case with Jesus, of course. But look at old Miss Marple. Always she knows, and everyone is surprised that she does. And the same with Hercule Poirot. How can that ridiculous little man know anything? But he does, he does. It is the triumph of the meek, in Agatha Christie as in the Gospels.