Quotes About Quote

the partition was rolled up for ventilation, and she was lying in her hammock reading one of the books Vernon had brought, a thriller called utopia.

Intuition, Pendergast knew, was the end result of the most sophisticated kind of reasoning.

Fou, très fou! Why, in New Orleans I would have finished

What was it Voltaire said? "To the living we owe respect, but to the dead only truth." I honor Hugo's memory by telling the truth about him.

I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn                           between bitterness and hope

The air-conditioned car and the cool look of things outside was as refreshing as an icepack.

No man looks with love on deeds that to the high Gods hateful prove.

Lo, when man's force doth ope The virgin doors, there is no cure nor hope For what is lost.

Look to it and consider, and deem not That ever stubbornness excels discretion.

Obedience is the mother of success and is wedded to safety.

It is odd how, when you have a secret belief of your own which you do not wish to acknowledge, the voicing of it by someone else will rouse you to a fury of denial.

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.

It is deplorable...to remove all the romance - all the mystery!

Yes, yes-you will give him the earth-because you love him. Love him too much for safety or for happiness. But you cannot give to people what they are incapable of receiving.

If only-if only, Hastings, you would part your hair in the middle instead of at the side! What a difference it would make to the symmetry of your appearance. And your moustache. If you must have a moustache, let it be a real moustache-a thing of beauty such as mine.

It is a curious thought, but it is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realize just how much you love them

I, Hercule Poirot, am not amused.

Poirot sighed. He said "The world is yours, the new heaven and the new earth. In your new world, my children, let there be freedom, and let there be pity. That is all I ask.

There's a saying by some great writer or other that no man is a hero to his valet. Perhaps everyone ought to have a valet.

Miss Bulstrode had another faculty which demonstrated her superiority over most other women. She could listen.

I've heard that you're the cat's whiskers, M. Poirot." "Comment? The cat's whiskers? I do not understand." "Well that you're It." "Madame, I may or may not have brains - as a matter of fact I have - why pretend?

It seems odd that as far as I know nobody has yet been murdered for having too perfect a character! And yet perfection is undoubtedly an irritating thing!

And suddenly one of those moments of intense happiness came to her--a sense of the loveliness of the world--of her own intense enjoyment of that world.

Mon ami ,' said Poirot with dignity, 'when I commit a murder it will not be with the arrow poison of the South American Indians.