Dead Man's Folly

I mean, what can you say about how you write your books? What I mean is, first you've got to think of something, and then when you've thought of it you've got to force yourself to sit down and write it. That's all." ~ Mrs. Oliver

I have always noticed that these artists and writers are very unbalanced

I mean, what can you say about how you write books? What I mean is, first you’ve got to think of something, and when you’ve thought of it you’ve got to force yourself to sit down and write it. That’s all. It would have taken me just three minutes to explain that, and then the Talk would have been ended and everyone would have been very fed up. I can’t imagine why everybody is always so keen for authors to talk about writing. I should have thought it was an author’s business to write, not talk.

If the foundations are rotten - everything's rotten.

I’m not very good at telling things. I mean if I write things, I get them perfectly clear, but if I talk, it always sounds the most frightful muddle.

Well, I’ll have to tell it you, then. Only I’m not very good at telling things. I mean if I write things, I get them perfectly clear, but if I talk, it always sounds the most frightful muddle; and that’s why I never discuss my plots with anyone. I’ve learnt not to, because if I do, they just look at me blankly and say ‘—er—yes, but—I don’t see what happened—and surely that can’t possibly make a book.’ So damping. And not true, because when I write it, it does!

…first you’ve got to think of something, and when you’ve thought of it you’ve got to force yourself to sit down and write it. That’s all.

Bland reflected that the local verdict seemed to be the comfortable and probably agelong one of attributing every tragic occurrence to unspecified foreigners.

Are you still there monsieur Poirot?” Demanded Mrs. Oliver. At the same time, the operator requested more money. With these formalities completed, Poirot spoke once more. “Are you still there Madame?” “I’M still here.” Said Mrs. Oliver. “And don’t let’s waste any more money asking each other if we’re there. What is it?

Poirot was always willing to let people talk. The more people who talked to him

Whether he realizes she’s a bit wanting in the top storey

Though obviously careless of her appearance, she had that indefinable air of being someone which is so hard to explain.

neurotic – all the rest of it. Like those

It makes one feel such a fool,” said Mrs. Oliver, ruefully, “not to be able to be definite.

It is necessary to tell a woman at least once a week, and preferably three or four times, that we love her; and that it is also wise to bring her a few flowers, to pay her a few compliments, to tell her that she looks well in her new dress or new hat.

He went slowly out of the boat house, unhappy and displeased with himself. He, Hurcule Poirot, had been summoned to prevent a murder and he had not prevented it. It had happened. What was even more humiliating was that he had no real ideas, even now, as to what has actually happened. It was ignominious. And tomorrow, he must return to London, defeated. His ego was seriously deflated. Even his mustache drooped.