Agatha Christie

A man in drink can be like a ravening wolf.

Never worry about what you say to a man. They're so conceited that they never believe you mean it if it's unflattering._-Caroline to Ursual.

A man in love is a sorry spectacle.

But when a man is really in love he can't help looking like a sheep. Now whenever that young man looked he looked like a sheep I take back all is this morning. It is genuine.

Nobody knows what another person is thinking. They may imagine they do, but they are nearly always wrong.

Murder can sometimes seem justified, but it is murder all the same. You are truthful and clear-minded--face the truth, mademoiselle! Your friend died in the last resort, because she had not the courage to live. We may sympathize with her. We may pity her. But the fact remains--the act was hers--not another.

Somehow, the more I get older, and the more I see of people and sadness and illness and everything, the sorrier I get for everyone.

Besides a burial service is rather lovely. Makes you feel uplifted, the grief is real. It makes you feel awful but it does something to you. I mean, it works it out like perspiration.

The longer the time that has elapsed, the more things fall into proportion. One sees them in their true relationship to one another.

Trains are relentless things, aren't they, Monsieur Poirot? People are murdered and die, but they go on just the same. I am talking nonsense, but you know what I mean.""Yes, yes, I know. Life is like a train, Mademoiselle. It goes on. And it is a good thing that that is so.""Why?""Because the train gets to its journey's end at last, and there is a proverb about that in your language, Mademoiselle.""'Journey's end in lovers meeting.'" Lenox laughed. "That is not going to be true for me.""Yes--yes, it is true. You are young, younger than you yourself know. Trust the train, Mademoiselle, for it is le bon Dieu who drives it."The whistle of the engine came again."Trust the train, Mademoiselle," murmured Poirot again. "And trust Hercule Poirot. He knows.

Where large sums of money are concerned, it is advisable to trust nobody.

_ one can never go back, that one should not ever try to go back _ that the essence of life is going forward. Life is really a One Way Street.

I mean that success has come early. And that is dangerous. Always dangerous.

What can I say at seventy-five? "Thank God for my good life,and for all the love that has been given to me.

Who can tell? It may be that there must always be growth - and that if one does not grow kinder and wiser and greater, then the growth must be the other way, fostering the evil things. Or it may be that the life they all led was too shut in, too folded back upon itself - without breadth or vision. Or it may be that, like a disease of crops, it is contagious, that first one and then another is sickened.

Speech is the deadliest of revealers.' - Hercule Poirot, Cards on the Table

The two words expressed volumes.

Poirot, watching him, felt suddenly a doubt--an uncomfortable twinge. Was there, here, something that he had missed? Some richness of the spirit? Sadness crept over him. Yes, he should have become acquainted with the classics. Long ago. Now, alas, it was too late....