It's so much nicer to be a secret and delightful sin to anybody than to be a feather in his cap.

Evil is not something superhuman, it's something less than human.

He was very much a man of moods, possibly owing to what is styled the artistic temperment. I have never seen, myself, why the possession of artistic ability should be supposed to excuse a man from a decent exercise of self-control.

In the midst of life, we are in death.

how tedious is retirement! You cannot imagine to yourself the monotony with which day comes after day.

It's a mystery to me how anyone ever gets any nourishment in this place. They must eat their meals standing up by the window so as to be sure of not missing anything.

I have no pity for myself either. So let it be Veronal. But I wish Hercule Poirot had never retired from work and come here to grow vegetable marrows.