Poirot said placidly, “One does not, you know, employ merely the muscles. I do not need to bend and measure the footprints and pick up the cigarette ends and examine the bent blades of grass. It is enough for me to sit back in my chair and think. It is this – ” he tapped his egg-shaped head – “this, that functions!

One is alone when the last one who remembers is gone.

I don't know. I don't know at all. And that's what's frightening the life out of me. To have no idea.

Bitterness leads nowhere. It turns back on itself. It is the eternal cul-de-sac.

If we seek to keep the past alive, we end, I think, by distorting it.

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

Fey...a Scotch word...It means the kind of exalted happiness that comes before disaster. You know--it's too good to be true.