Quotes About Agatha Christie

A malformation of the grey cells may coincide quite easily with the face of a Madonna.

It was very like a dream. Like all dreamers, however, I could not let my dream alone. We poor humans are so anxious not to miss anything.

That gimcrack little desk, probably sham antique Louis XIV. She had said something to him once about there being a secret drawer in it. Secret drawer! That would not fool the police long.

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

Excuse me, Monsieur Poirot. If you'd like to ask any questions, I'm sure the doctor wouldn't mind. Of course not. Of course not. Great admirer of yours, Monsieur Poirot. Little gray cells -- order and method. I know all about it.

I can admire the perfect murderer--I can also admire a tiger-- that splendid tawny-striped beast. But I will admire him from outside his cage. I will not go inside. That is to say, not unless it is my duty to do so. For you see, Mr. Shaitana, the tiger might spring. . . .

Oh dear, I never realized what a terrible lot of explaining one has to do in a murder!

With more insight into the English character, I poured out a stiff whisky and soda and placed it in front of the gloomy inspector.

It is romantic, yes," agreed Hercule Poirot. "It is peaceful. The sun shines. The sea is blue. But you forget, Miss Brewster, there is evil everywhere under the sun.

Poirot was standing in the larder in a dramtic attitude. In his hand he was brandishing a leg of mutton. 'My dear Poirot! What is the matter? have you gone mad?' 'Regard i pray you this mutton! But regard it closely!

Yes," said Miss Marple. "The children of Lucifer are often beautiful—And as we know, they flourish like the green bay tree.

Her words held all the pointed innuendo that elderly ladies are able to achieve with the minimum of actual statement.

Height, five feet four inches, egg-shaped head carried a little to one side, eyes that shone green when he was excited, stiff military moustache, air of dignity immense!

Poor Joanna's handwriting is rather noticeable?sprawls about all over the envelope like an inebriated spider.

Bundle frowned. This business of the clocks was curious. She must get hold of Bill Eversleigh. He had been there, she knew. To think was to act with Bundle. She got up and went over to the writing desk. It was an inlaid affair with a lid that rolled back. Bundle sat down at it, pulled a sheet of notepaper towards her and wrote. Dear Bill,—

To begin with, you must realize that the threatening letters were in the nature of a blind. They might have been lifted bodily out of an indifferently written American crime novel.

Do you mean to tell me, Superintendent, that this is one of those damned cases you get in detective stories where a man is killed in a locked room by some apparently supernatural agency.

Poirot realized with a momentary flicker of amusement that he had not made himself popular by his critical attitude. Linnet was used to unqualified admiration of all she was or did. Hercule Poirot had sinned noticeably against this creed. Mrs Allerton, joining him,

Not instinct, Hastings. Instinct is a bad word. It is my knowledge—my experience—that tells me that something about that letter is wrong—

Popular feeling is very often sentimental, muddle-headed, and eminently unsound, but it cannot be disregarded for all that.

She was quite a kindly woman. What she said at the last in the kitchen was quite true. 'I didn't want to kill anybody.' What she wanted was a great deal of money that didn't belong to her! And before that desire—(and it had become a kind of obsession—the money was to pay her back for all the suffering life had inflicted on her)—everything else went to the wall.

Retired soldiers are the worst sufferers when they engage in financial operations. I have found that their credulity far exceeds that of widows--and that is saying a good deal.

This book is dedicated to the many readers in this and in other countries who write to me asking: 'What has happened to Tommy and Tuppence? What are they doing now?' My best wishes to you all, and I hope you will enjoy meeting Tommy and Tuppence again, years older, but with spirit unquenched!

Is there a common denominator? I wonder. You know, if there is, I should be inclined to say it is vanity.