Quotes About Identity

Try as one may, it is impossible to deny one's nature.

Those who assume a character which does not belong to them, only make themselves ridiculous.

Borrowed plumes.

Once a wolf, always a wolf.

Very few of us are what we seem.

As life goes on it becomes tiring to keep up the character you invented for yourself, and so you relapse into individuality and become more like yourself everyday.

The human face is, after all, nothing more nor less than a mask.

Do you not realize, Hastings, that each and everyone of us is a complete mystery with layers. We each try to judge each other, but nine times out of ten, we are wrong.

Ulick Norman Owen—Una Nancy Owen—each time, that is to say, U. N. Owen. Or by a slight stretch of fancy, UNKNOWN!

I am not mad. I am eccentric perhaps--at least certain people say so; but as regards my profession. I am very much as one says, 'all there.

Everybody is very much alike, really. But fortunately, perhaps, they don't realise it. - Miss Marple

Vi pripadate Ligi naroda? -Ja pripadam cijelom svijetu, madame, re?e Poirot dramati?no.

You belong to the League of Nations?' 'I belong to the world, Madame,' said Poirot dramatically.

Accuracy is more a male quality than a female one. - Jane Marple

It is perfectly clear. Mr. Owen is one of us.…

Faces are tricky unless you can connect up when and where you'd seen them.

You are not the happy, unthinking child you have always appeared to be, accepting everything at its face value. You are not just one of the women of the household. You are Renisenb who wants to think for herself, who wonders about other people.

About Miss Debenham," he said rather awkwardly. "You can take it from me that she's all right. She's a pukka sahib. "What," asked Dr. Constantine with interest, "does a pukka sahib mean?" "It means," said Poirot, "that Miss Debenham's father and brothers were at the same kind of school as Colonel Arbuthnot was." "Oh!" said Dr. Constantine, disappointed. "Then it has nothing to do with the crime at all." "Exactly," said Poirot.

The man who came into the room did not look as though his name was, or could have ever been, Robinson. It might have been Demetrius, or Isaacstein, or Perenna - though not one or the other in particular. He was not definitely Jewish, nor definitely Greek nor Portugese nor Spanish, nor South American. What did seem highly unlikely was that he was an Englishman called Robinson.

They all fuss about me so," she said. "They rub it in that I'm an old woman." "And you don't feel like one." "No, I don't, Jane. In spite of all my aches and pains–and I've got plenty. Inside I go on feeling just like a chit like Gina. Perhaps everyone does. The glass shows them how old they are and they just don't believe it.

The illusion that freedom is the prerogative of one's own particular race is fairly widespread.

I suppose I saw photos of him in the papers, but I wouldn't recognize my own mother when a press photographer had done with her.

Me and my old man went on a coach trip to Switzerland and Italy once and it was a whole hour further on there. Must be something to do with this Common Market. I don't hold with the Common Market and nor does Mr. Curtain. England's good enough for me.

And then the lights came on and suddenly it was all as usual - I don't mean really as usual, but we were ourselves again, not just - people in the dark. People in the dark are quite different, aren't they?