Tag Archive: agatha christie

Christie In A Year - Extended

Rating: 4.5 out of five

Year of Publication: 1939

Motive for Murder: Justice (?)

Plot:  Ten strangers arrive on ‘free holiday’ in Soldier Island, Devon. In the first evening after the dinner, their jolly mood suddenly change. A recorded voice then announces each name and the crime committed; all of them have slipped out of the justice radar. Afterwards, the night claims a life.

The next day begins and so does the terror. Stranded on an island in a stormy weather, more lives are taken as days pass. Suspicions among the remaining party are inevitable, for they come to realise one of them is the murderer. But who; a retired judge, an ex-Chief Inspector Detective (CID), a doctor or an elderly puritan woman?

Ten people were to spend a leisure time in an island that had  become a sensation in the media. For the speculation is rife…

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christie – master in the art of understanding human nature……

Parisian Cowgirl

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Perfumes Inspired by Dead Writers


Perfumes Inspired by Dead Writers –

a few………..

Jane Austen: Darjeeling tea, snowdrops and pansies (flowers from her garden), meadow grass

Dorothy Parker: Whiskey sour, vanilla, mandarin, white musk

the Bronte Sisters: Heather, sea air, vetiver, primrose, black tea

Louisa May Alcott: Fir tree, red currant, blood orange, coffee beans

Tolstoy: Vodka, musk, black tea, black peppercorn, cedar

Dickens: Cloves, tobacco, patchouli, brandy water, river water

what about agatha christie ?????????????????????         ( ……. or rand or doyle or maugham…………etc.etc ) , but gud to see austen and the bronte sis’ s in 1 place

q, books


haruki murakami


“How people treat you is their karma;
how you react is yours.”

Wayne Dyer



My Definite Chief Aim

I, Bruce Lee, will be the first highest paid Oriental super star in the United States. In return I will give the most exciting performances and render the best of quality in the capacity of an actor. Starting 1970 I will achieve world fame and from then onward till the end of 1980 I will have in my possession $10,000,000. I will live the way I please and achieve inner harmony and happiness.

Bruce Lee

Jan. 1969

A hand-written note from Bruce Lee, courtesy of Cojourneo.

(via blinksoflife)   just-rise-again:Queued <3

“It was a small dingy bookshop in a side street … I sidled through the doorway. It was necessary to sidle, since precariously arranged books impinged more and more every day on the passageway from the street. Inside, it was clear that the books owned the shop rather than the other way about. Everywhere they had run wild and taken possession of their habitat, breeding and multiplying and clearly lacking any strong hand to keep them down.”

Agatha Christie, The Clocks, 1963

“Sometimes you read a book so special that you want to carry it around with you for months after you’ve finished just to stay near it.” - Markus Zusak


finally done with the unending……… summative essay…………..

LO-CI-  goren or pierce- modern holmes ??? popular opinion – goren………………pierce – more real .  no modern poirot thus far…………………….but david suchet for poirot forever. and  loci – no focus -on the stupid chemistry between leads…………purely plot driven –  whiff of change from other shows………bn –  sleek


  • luv       leslie williamson –     design  – beautiful blend of retro, art deco and contemporary elements to give a  rustic, minimalistic feel







E from http://www.thehindu.com/arts/books/article3591190.ece

…………………………… Killing Agatha Christie is a popular sport with writers of detective fiction. It’s also something of a rite of passage. A public sneer at Christie is a practical necessity for the nervous beginner testing the waters. If one declares Hercule Poirot insufferable and Miss Marple certifiable, one is already midstream. The other side, the greener one, is literary fiction. The muck still sticking to the skin is detective stuff. The writer, gaining the shore, may yell her lungs out that detective fiction is literary, but nobo

Every murderer needs an alibi. Best not to look too closely at this one, or we might land up finding Christie characters and plots in the murderer’s own oeuvre. Even Colin Watson, after his satirical Mayhem Parva, went on to give us Miss Silver who is only Marple gone giddy on whisky and sex.

All this worked well in the postmodern fug of mannered ennui and cynicism, but in the second decade of the third millennium, it reads so yesterday. We need to let in daylight now, and seriously examine why it is so difficult murdering Agatha Christie.

At the end of the first page of any Christie novel, the reader is infected with a delicious sense of anticipation. Nothing has happened as yet — no corpse, no murderous thought, no simmering resentments — yet the page trills with excitement. In the voice of Dolly Bantry, the reader’s thought is “This is my murder, and I intend to enjoy it!”

Christie intended to appetize us for murder. And how well she succeeds. We’re avid for murder before she so much as hints at the corpse around the corner.

The trick is simple, and not easy to duplicate. Christie is not writing for the reader. She’s writing in real time, as she watches the story unfold. The excitement we feel is her own.

If there is any skill at all to writing, it is this. A supreme lack of self-consciousness, an indifference to detail except for what moves the moment, the flow from now to next.

I didn’t see that — did you? is the question the reader keeps asking because the scenery is flying past the window, and it’s all familiar, so how can we tell what we missed?

Banal prose? Did I hear you mutter banal? When was the banal so dangerous as with Agatha Christie?

Christie limned society in shrewd spare lines (most of them spoken). The very economy of those lines gave her characters the annoying clarity of strangers glimpsed across the aisle: the little you saw or overheard compelled you to vividly imagine the rest.

The next accusation is that Christie was prolific — and what can be produced so fast but trash? The same argument is levelled at two other successful hacks whose anniversaries were recently celebrated — P. G. Wodehouse and Charles Dickens. There’s a paradox here, one generally overlooked. People wrote more, and much faster before computers. In fact, the messier the implements, the faster they wrote. Shakespeare wrote faster than Scott who wrote faster than Dickens who wrote faster than P.G. Wodehouse who ran neck-to-neck with Christie most of the time.

So if Christie pulled off six impossible books before breakfast, how did she do it? She doesn’t tell. Her Autobiography, published posthumously in 1977, is her most accomplished work of fiction. It is completely opaque.

The real story

Try reading a Christie novel without its detective. The book does not collapse. The story still moves. You realise then that the game in which you were earlier caught up, with its clues and red herrings and breathless denouement is merely impasto, an overlay on the real story, the one you’re left with when you close the book. Murder is merely a colour that makes one narrative emerge, but there are other stories in flux — like that other dystopia we call life.

This is why Christie’s books are addictive. We recognise the dystopia because it locates familiar irrationalities, discrepancies, anarchies, misfits, and we’re asking all the time what if this means murder? The cannibalistic sadist, the tragic necrophiliac, even the cellar with its layers of bodies, seem puerile next to Christie’s respectable murderers. For her solid tax-paying men and women, murder’s merely another domestic chore.

Time we saw this really, because when paraphilias are passé and axe murderers put to grass, there’s still the misfit, the discrepancy, the odd detail that nags, and we do need to find out what it means. And that is why it is impossible to murder Agatha Christie.


Wait on, there’s more — Christie dominates libraries, which takes her a notch beyond, and makes her also the most read. After the initial colic of envy, this could be a good thing for the literary writer. It proves how irredeemably vulgar Christie must be. Literary fiction, of course, can only be read by the truly literate, the sort who, horrid thought, cozies up with Edmund Wilson — today remembered for little beyond his neurotic “Who Cares Who Killed Roger Ackroyd?” (1945) tantrum in The New Yorker.

Not only do her bad books sell by the million, but Agatha Christie is dead too, and that’s an injustice difficult to ignore.



this novel is so relevant to the present times , with the london riots.

’interview with christie

I suppose you tke most of your characters from real life?V
An indignant denial to that monstrous suggestion  ’No, I don’t. I invent them. They are mine. They’ve goto
be my characters–doing what I want them to do, being what I want them to be–coming alive for me, having then- own ideas sometimes, but&
only because I’ve made the?
become real.So the author has produced the ideas, and the character!
–but now comes the third necessity–the setting.

’Leadership, besides being a great creativ”
force, can be diabolical . . .

The Author speaks_
The first question put to an author, personally, or throug7
the post, is_
’Where do you get your ideas from?V
The temptation is great to reply: ’I always go to Harrods,V
or ’I get them mostly at the Army & Navy Stores,’ or, snappily
Try Marks and Spencer.The universal opinion seems firmly established that there i!
magic source of ideas which authors have discovered
One can hardly send one’s questioners back to Elizabeth  times, with Shakespeare’s_
Tell me, where is fancy bred
Or in the heart or in the bead
How begot, how nourished
Reply, reply
You merely say firmly: “My own head.
That, of course, is no help to anybody. If you like the look of your questioner you relent_and go a little further  ’If one idea in particular seems attractive, and you fee>
you could do something with it, then you toss it around
play tricks with it, work it up, tone it down, and gradually get it into shape. Then, of course, you have to strt writin$
it. That’s not nearly such fun–it becomes hard work. Alternatively you can tuck it carefully away, in storage, for perhap!
using in a year or two years’ time. A second question–or rather a statement–is then like  to be_
’I suppose you tke most of your characters from real life? An indignant denial to that monstrous suggestionI
’No, I don’t. I invent them. They are mine. They’ve go to be my characters–doing what I want them to do, being
what I want them to be–coming alive for me, having their  own ideas sometimes, but only because I’ve made the?
become reed.So the author has produced the ideas, and the character!
–but now comes the third necessity–the setting. The firs two
come from inside sources, but the third is outside it must be there–waiting–in existence already. You don’invent
that–it’s there–it’s real You have been perhaps for a cruise on the Nile–yo,
remember it all–just the setting you want for this particular story. You have had a meal at a Chelsea cafe. A quarre>
was going on–one girl pulled out a handful of another    girl’s hair. An excellent start for the book you are going
to write next. You travel on the Orient Express.  You go to
tea with a friend. As you arrive her brother closes a book he  is reading–throws it aside, says: ’Not bad, but why on
earth didn’t they ask Evans?  So you decide immediately a book of yours shortly to be   written will bear the title. Why Didn’t They Ask EvansY
You don’t know yet who Evans is going to be. Never  mind. Evans will come in due course–the title is fixed  So, in a sense, you don’t invent your settings. They are outside you, all around you, in existence–you have \only to’lstretch out your&
hand and pick and choose. A railway train, a hospital, a London hotel, a Caribbean beach  country village, a cocktil party, a girls’ schoolI
But one thing only applies–they must be there–in existence  , Real people, real places. A definite place in time and
space. If here and now–how shall you get full information-U part from the evidence of your own eyes and ears? The answer is frighteningly simpleI
It is what the Press brings to you every day, served in your morning paper under the general heading of News
Collect it from the front page. What is going on in the world today? What is everyone saying, thinking, doing? Hold ur mirror to 1970 in EnglandI
Look at that front page every day for a month, make notes, consider and classifyI
Every day there is a killing
A girl strangled
Elderly woman attacked and robbed of her meagre savings
Young men or boys–attacking or attacked
Buildings and telephone kiosks smashed and gutted
Drug smuggling.
Robbery and assault
Children missing and children’s murdered bodies found no

far from their homes
Can this be England? Is England really like this? One feels–no–not yet, but it&
could beI
Fear is awakening–fear of what may be. Not so much because of actual happenings but because of the possible
causes behind them. Some known, some unknown, but felt. And not only in our own&
country. There are smaller paragraph!
on other pages–giving news from Europe–from
–from the Americas–Worldwide NewsI
Hi-jacking of planes
Anarchy– growing stronger
All seeming to lead to worship of destruction, pleasur”
in cruelty
What does it all mean? An Elizabethan phrase echo!
from the past, speaking of Life_
< .. it is a lie”
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
, Signifying nothing
And yet one knows–of one’s own knowledge–how much
goodness there is in this world of ours–the kindnesses done
the goodness of heart, the acts of compassion, the kindness o+
neighbour to neighbour, the helpful actions of girls and boys
Then why this fantstic atmosphere of daily news–o+
things that happen–that are actual factsY
To write a story in this year of Our Lord 1970–you must come
to terms with your background. If the background i!

fantstic, then the story must accept its background. It, tooF
must be a fantasy–an extravaganza. The setting must includ”
the fantstic facts of daily life Can one envisage a fantstic cause? A secret Campaig#
for Power? Can a maniacal desire for destruction create&
new world? Can one go a step further and suggest deliveranc”
by fantstic and impossible-sounding meansY
Nothing is impossible, science has tught us thatI
This story is in essence a fantsy. It pretends to be nothin$
But most of the things that happen in it are happening, or giving promise of&
happening in the world of todayI
It is not an impossible story–it is only a fantstic oneI
aBook K
aChapter N
Fasten your seat-belts, please.’ The diverse passengers i#
the plane were slow to obey. There was a general feelin$
that they couldn’t possibly be arriving at Geneva yet. Th”
drowsy groaned and yawned. The more than drowsy ha@
to be gently roused by an authoritative stewardessI
“Your seat-belts, please.V
The dry voice came authoritatively over the Tannoy. It explained in German, in&
French, and in English that a short period
of rough weather would shortly be experienced. Si%
Stfford Nye opened his mouth to its full extent, yawned an@
pulled himself upright in his seat. He had been dreamin$
very happily of fishing an English riverI
He was a man of forty-five, of medium height, with&
smooth, olive, clean-shaven face. In dress he rather liked t(
ffect the bizarre. A man of excellent family, he felt full=

t ease indulging any such isartorial whims. If it made th”
more conventionally dressed of his colleagues wince occasionallyF
that was merely a source of malicious pleasure t(
him. There was something about him of the eighteenthcentur=
buck. He liked to be noticedI
His particular kind of affecttion when travelling was&
kind of bandit’s cloak which he had once purchased i#
Corsica. It was of a very dark purply-blue, had a scarlelining
and had a kind of burnous hanging down behin@
which he could draw up over his head when he wished toF
so as to obviate draughtsI
Sir Stfford Nye had been a disappointment in diplomatiA
circles. Marked out in early youth by his gifts for great things,
he had singularly failed to fulfil his early promiseI
A peculiar and diabolical sense of humour was wont t(

fflict him in what should have been his most serious momentsI
When it came to the point, he found that he alway!
preferred to indulge his delicate Puckish malice to borin$
himself. He was a well-known figure in public life withouever
having reached eminence. It was felt that Stfford NyeF
though definitely brilliant, was not–and presumably neve%
would be–a safe man. In these days of tngled politics an@
tngled foreign relations, safety, especially if one were t(
reach ambassadorial rank, was preferable to brilliance. Si%
Stfford Nye was relegated to the shelf, though he was occa1S

asionally entrusted with such missions as needed the art o+
intrigue, but were not of too importnt or public a natureI
Journalists sometimes referred to him as the dark horse o+
_ Whether Sir Stfford himself was disappointed with his own career, nobody ever&
knew. Probably not even Sir Stffor@
Page d
Passenger To Frankfurhimself.
He was a man of a certin vanity, but he was als(

man who very much enjoyed indulging his own proclivitie!
for mischiefI
He was returning now from a commission of inquiry i#
Malaya. He had found it singularly lacking in interestI
His colleagues bad, in his opinion, made up their mind!
beforehand what their findings were going to be. They sa:

nd they listened, but their preconceived views were no

ffected. Sir Stfford had thrown a few spanners into th”
works, more for the hell of it than from any pronounce@
convictions. At all events, he thought, it had livened things up. He wished there&
were more possibilities of doing thasort
of thing. His fellow members of the commission ha@
been sound, dependable fellows, and remarkably dull. Eve#
the well-known Mrs Nathaniel Edge, the only woman memberF
well known as having bees in her bonnet, was no fool whe#
it came down to plain facts. She saw, she listened and sh”
played safeI


adays when it occurred to Sir Stfford that it was a pity th”
paragraph was not true. He was a little–just a little-U
tired of wild flowers and, fond as he was of dear Lucy, he%
bility despite her sixty-odd years to race up hills at toM
speed, easily outpacing him, sometimes annoyed him. Alway!
just in front of him he saw the seat of those brighroyal
blue trousers and Lucy, though scraggy enough elsewhereF
goodness knows, was decidedly too broad in the bea?
to wear royal blue corduroy trousers. A nice little internationa>
pie, he had thought, in which to dip his fingers, i#
which to play about . . I

ir, were really excessively boring.

Journeys all over the globe. How romantic it ought to be
But there was something about the atmosphere of a Passengers
Lounge in an airport that chilled romance. It wa!
too full of people, too full of things to buy, too full of similar
coloured seats, too full of plastic, too full of human
beings, too full of crying children. ?He tried to remember wh(
had said_
I wish I loved the Human Race
I wish I loved its silly face”
Chesterton perhaps? was undoubtedly true. Put enoug7
people together and they looked so painfully alike thaone
could hardly bear it. An interesting face now, thoughSir
Stfford. What a difference it would make.



They are four widely divergent types; the motive that drives each one of them to crime is peculiar to that person, and each one would employ a different method. The deduction must, therefore, be entirely psychological, but it is none the less interesting for that, because when all is said and done it is the mind of the murderer that is of supreme interest.

It was a soft purring voice a voice/used deliberately as an
inStrument–nothing impulsive or unpremeditated about it.
Hercule Poirot swung round.
He bowed.

The door of Mr. Shaitana’s flat opened noiselessly. A grey-haired butler drew it
back to let Poirot enter. He closed it equally noiselessly and deftly relieved the
guest of his overcoat and hat.

The man who came in did so with a kind of parody of a brisk bedside manner.
He was a cheerful, highly-coloured individual of middle age. Small twinkling eyes,
a touch of baldness, a tendency to embonpoint and a general air of well-scrubbed
and disinfected medical practitio/er. His manner was cheerful and confident. You
felt that his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments agreeable and
practical “a little champagne in convalescence perhaps.” A man of the world!

“In real life people don’t bother about being too subtle, Mrs. Oliver,” said the
superintendent. “They usually stick to arsenic because it’s nice and handy to get
hold of.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That’s simply because there are lots of crimes
you people at Scotland Yard never find out. Now if you hada woman there
“As a matter of fact we have ”
“Yes, those dreadful policewomen in funny hats who bother people in parks. I
mean a woman at the head of things. Women know about crime.”
“They’re usually very successful criminals,” said Superintendent Battle.
“Keep their heads well. It’s amazing how they’ll brazen things out.”
Mr. Shaitana laughed gently.
“Poison is a woman’s weapon,” he said. “There must be many secret women
poisoners–never found out.”
“Of course there are,” said Mrs. Oliver happily, helping herself lavishly to a mousse of foie gras.

The firelight gleamed on the crystal stoppers. Always an artist in lighting, Mr. Shaitana had simulated the appearance of a merely firelit room. A small shaded lamp at his elbow gave him light to read by if he so desired. Discreet floodlighting gave the room a subdued glow. A slightly stronger light shone over the bridge table, from whence the monotonous
ejaculations continued.

“It’s impossible!” cried Mrs. Oliver. “Absolutely impossible. None of those
people can be criminals.”Superintendent Battle shook his head thoughtfully.”I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Mrs. Oliver. Murderers look and behave very  much like everybody else. Nice, quiet, well-behaved, reasonable folk very often.” “In that case, it’s Dr. Roberts,” said Mrs. Oliver firmly. “I felt instinctively that there was something wrong with that man as soon as I saw him. My instincts  never lie.”
“Didn’t get any extra change out of her,” commented Battle. “Put me in my place,
too. She’s the old-fashioned kind, full of consideration for others, but arrogant as
the devil! I can’t believe she did it, but you never know! She’s got plenty of

“I should have kept him to the end,” said Mrs. Oliver. “In a book, I mean,”
she added apologetically.
“Real life’s a bit different,” said Battle.
“I know,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Badly constructed.”

seven dials mystery – a.christie

He spoke as head gardeners should speak–mournfully, but with dignity–like an emperor at a funeral.

It was indeed characteristic of Bundle to be

in a hurry, especially when driving a car. She

had skill and nerve and was a good driver,

had it been otherwise her reckless pace would

have ended in disaster more than once.

It was a crisp October day, with a blue sky

and a dazzling sun. The sharp tang of the air

brought the blood to Bundle’s cheeks and

filled her with the zest of living.

In my opinion half the people who

spend their lives avoiding being run over by

buses had much better be run over and put

safely out of the way. They’re no good.”

It occurred to Lady Caterham that her

niece was really wonderfully improved. Had

she, perhaps, had an unfortunate love affair?

An unfortunate love affair, in Lady

Caterham’s opinion, was often highly

beneficial to young girls. It made them take

life seriously.

A damned funny crowd,” said Bundle,

vigorously massaging her arms and legs. “As

a matter of fact, they’re the sort of crowd I

always imagined until to-night only existed in

books. In this life, Alfred, one never stops


Looks a good-natured, tubby

little chap. But Codders is absolutely

impossible. Drive, drive, drive, from

morning to night. Everything you do is

wrong, and everything you haven’t done you

ought to have done.”

The rock-like quality of the Superintendent showed out well. Not a muscle of his face

moved.”The best of us are defeated sometimes, sir,” he said quietly.

“I’m much too clever. Always have a good opinion

of yourself—that’s my motto.”



 Oh, its nothing to do with me,” said

Lord Caterham hastily; “Eileen settles her

own affairs. If she came to me to-morrow and

said she was going to marry the chauffeur, I

shouldn’t make any objections. It’s the only

way nowadays. Your children can make life

damned unpleasant if you don’t give in to

them in every way. I say to Bundle, “Do as

you like, but don’t worry me,’ and really, on the whole, she is amazingly good about it.

. What a fatal thing

it is to pretend to take an interest in a man’s pet subject.


my review of the woman in black -twib

The Woman in Black (1989 film)…………

favvvvvvvvv horror

One of the really well-made horror movies , i’ve seen , thus far. proves that a you don’t need ‘special effects’ to scare the shit out of ur audience,  well-written script and as i learnt from this movie – good music and clever makeup is  all that is needed to do the trick – and  the actors to suit the part of course……..’coz it’s pauline moran’s large eyes  more than the make-up which bring the sinister effect to life (after-life rather). talking of  pauline moran- who mystery afficionadi are familiar with as the gr8 poirot’s secretary miss lemon (can’t easily miss out her trademark eyes even without the scary lenses) – especially in the room at the inn will sure as hell scare any one’s pants off .

Oh the joy of watching a well-made horror movie is really inexplicable …….the closest a horror movie-buff like me can come to is  like   the joy of savoring a dairy milk , ……………..bless the man who invented the chocolate ……………………..and a  good movie like this makes you titter   like   a  child .

so , coming to twib- i just wish there was a happy ending, ‘coz horror movies are more often than not built on grounds (where the dead lie /sleep)  of tragedy that it would be nice to see the humans and the technically inhumans (ghosts ) happy in their respective abodes – earth and h or h – heaven or hell – lives and after -lives…………


Of course Cora was a rather unbalanced and excessively stupid woman,  nd she had been noted, even as a girl, for the embarrassing manner in  which she had blurted out unwelcome truths. At least, he didn’t mean truths–that was quite the wrong word to use. Awkward statements–that was a much better term.

Cora’s unfortunate gaffe had been forgotten. After all,

Cora had always been, if not subnormal, at any rate embarrassingly naive. She had never had any idea of what should

or should not be said. At nineteen it had not mattered so

much. The mannerisms of an enfant terrible can persist to

then, but an enfant terrible of nearly fifty is decidedly disconcerting.

To blurt out unwelcome truths– Mr. Entwhistle’s train of thought came to an abrupt check.It was the second time that that disturbing word had occurred. Truths. And why was it so disturbing ? because, of course,that had always been at the bottom of the embarrassment that Cora’s outspoken comments had caused. It was because her ave statements had been either true or had contained some grain of truth that they had been so embarrassing.

Well, the doctor had been wrong–but doctors, as they were

the first to admit themselves, could never be sure about the

individual reaction of a patient to disease. Cases given up,

unexpectedly recovered. Patients on the way to recovery,

relapsed and died. So much depended on the vitality of the

patient. On his own inner urge to live.

It made her sad to think of that, but she pushed the sadness aside

resolutely. It did one no good to dwell on the past.

A large umber of Wives with matrimonial troubles

had passed through the office of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle

and Bollard. Wives madly devoted to unsatisfactory and

often what appeared quite unprepossessing husbands, wives

contemptuous of, and bored by, apparently attractive and

impeccable husbands. What any woman saw in some particular

man was beyond the comprehension of the average intelligent

male. It just was so. A woman who could be intelligent

about everything else in the world could be a complete fool

when it came to some particular man.

At my age the chief pleasure, almost the only pleasure that still remains, is the pleasure of the table.Mercifully I have an excellent stomach.”

She had character, you see, and character is always highly individual.”

“Women are never kind,” remarked Poirot. “Though they

can sometimes be tender.

‘ Women can be fools in ninety-nine different ways but be pretty shrewd in the hundredth. Oh yes, and he said, ‘

A woman of very exceptional character, She mayhave had certain–what shall I say ?–reticences in her life.

“It’s not your place to say anything of that kind–that’s what you really mean. But there are times when one has to do violence to one’s sense of what is fitting.

“Don’t think. That is the wrong way to bring anything back. Let it go. Sooner or later it will flash into your mind. And when it does-let me know–at once.”

It was true that Miss Gilchrist did not benefit from Cora Lansquenet’s death but who was to know that ? And  besides, there were so many tales—ugly tales-of animOSity arising between women who lived together–strange pathological motives for sudden violence.

“A funeral has always been a recognised excuse for absenteeism. And this funeral is indubitably genuine. Besides,a murder always fascinates people.

“Oh no, it’s not. Perhaps your generation doesn’t do it.

Young ladies nowadays mayn’t se so much store on getting married. But it is an old custom. Put a piece of wedding cake under your pillow and you’ll dream of your future husband.”

“I sent the boys out. They do what they can–good ladsgood lads all of them, but not what they used to be in the old days. They don’t come that way nowadays. Not willing to learn, that’s what it is. Think they know everything after they’ve only been a couple of years on the job. And they work to time. Shocking the way they work to time.”

“And all this education racket. It gives them ideas. They come back and tell us what they think. They can’t think, most of them, anyway. All they know is things out of books., That’s ,n,o good in our business. Bring in the answers–that s all that s needed—no thinking.”

Never shall I forget the killing of

Lord Edgware. I was nearly defeated–yes, I, Hercule

Poirot–by the extremely simple cunning of a vacant brain. The very simple minded have often the genius to commit an uncomplicated crime and then leave it alone. Let us hope that our murderer–if there is a murderer in this affair—is intelligent and superior and thoroughly pleased with himself and unable to resist painting the Iffy.


devoted to her husband, treats him like a child. “Yes, yes, the maternal complex.”

Always thinking of something new they were, these doctors.

Look at them telling old Rogers he had a disc or some such

in his spine. Plain lumbago, that was all that was the matter

with him. Her father had been a gardener and he’d suffered

from lumbago.

Oh l it is true enough–it is an old maxim–everyone has something to hide. It is true of all of us–it is perhaps true of you, too, Madame. But I say to you, nothing can be ignored.

“How clever of you. I suppose backs are distinctive.” “Much more so than faces. Add a beard and pads in your cheeks and do a few things to your hair and nobody will know you when you come face to face with them–but beware of the moment when you walk away.”

George looked at his cousin appreciatively, lie admired the slanting planes of her face, the generous mouth, the radiant colouring. Altogether an unusual and vivid face. And he recognised in Susan that odd, indefinable quality, the quality of success.

As a cousin

he did not mind being spiteful, but he had an uneasy sense

that Susan’s feeling for her husband was a thing to be treated

with care. It had all the qualities of a dangerous explosive.

“You forget that I’m a lawyer. I see a lot of the queer,illogical side of people.

“Nothing. I only want you to be—careful, ,,Mick.” “Careful about what ? I’m always careful. -. “No,I don’t think you are. You alway thnk you can get away with things and that everyone will elieve.wha-teve, r,

you want them to.

“Things aren’t over when you’ve done them. It’s really a sort of beginning and then one’s got to arrange what to do

next, and what’s important and what is not.”

There was a quality of passive resistance about her that seemed unexpectedly strong.Had she, while apparently graceful and unconcerned, managed to impress her own reluctance upon him ?

For Hercule Poirot had a lifetime of experience behind him, and as a man who deals with pictures can recognize the artist, so Poirot believed he could recognize a likely type of the amateur criminal who will–if his own particular need arises be prepared to kill.

He had used his eyes and his ears. He had watched and listened–openly and behind doors! He had noticed affinities, antagonisms, the unguarded words that arose as always when property was to be divided. He had

engineered adroitly tte–ttes, walks upon the terrace, and

had made his deductions and observations.

“But you are a realist, Madame. Let us admit without more ado

that the world is full of the young–or even the middle-aged–who wait,

patiently or impatiently, for the death of someone whose decease will give them if not affluence –then opportunity.”

How averse human beings were ever to admit ignorance!

. More or less forgotten by all, Hercule Poirot leant back in his chair, sipped his coffee and observed, as a cat may observe, the twitterings, and comings and goings of a flock of birds. The cat is not ready yet to make its spring.

“Rather a shame to bait old Timothy,” he said. “But he really is quite unbelievable. He’s had his own way in every-thing so iong that he’s become quite pathological about it.”

“The truth is,” said George, “that one very seldom looks

properly at anyone. That’s why one gets such wildly differing

accounts of a person from different witnesses in court. You’d

be surprised. A man is often described as tall–short; thin

–stout; fair–dark; dressed in a dark–light–suit; and so

on. There’s usually one reliable observer, but one has to make

up one’s mind who that is.”

“Another queer thing,” said Susan,” is that you sometimes

catch sight of yourself in a mirror unexpectedly and don’t

know who it is. It,just looks vaguely familiar. And you say

to yourself, ‘That s somebody I know quite well.., and

then suddenly realise it’s yourself”

George said: “It would be more difficult still if you could

really see yourself—and not a mirror image.”

“Why ?” asked Rosamund, looking puzzled.

“Because, don’t you see, nobody ever sees themselves–as

they appear to other people. They always see themselves in a

glass–that is–as a reversed image.”

“She is of the generation that rises early,” said Poirot

nodding his head. “The younger ones, now they do not get

up so early ?”

peril at end house

read at one go yesterday night…………now that i remember ,  maybe that’s the reason i had a gud night’s sleep and woke up happy ?!    many twists and turns……….suspected nick at one point due to the  ‘ old nick-young nick thing ‘  –  u know christie’s predilection for  ” evil streak  running  in the family ” ….but with the box of chocolates ……….i ruled her out .ok  , here go the excerpts………..

No seaside town in the south of England is, I think, as attractive as St. Loo. It is well named the Queen of Watering Places and  reminds one forcibly of the Riviera. The Cor-nish coast is to my mind every bit as fasci-nating as that of the south of France.

And for the English I have always had, as you know, a great admiration.

She impressed me, I think, as the most tired person I had ever met. Tired in mind, not in body, as though she had found everything in the world to be empty and valueless.

“She’s one of my oldest friends,” she said, “and I always think loyalty’s such a tiresome virtue, don’t you? Principally practiced by the Scotch like thrift and keeping the Sab-bath.

“Possibly. It is an interesting subject of after-dinner conversation are all criminals really madmen? There may be a malformation in their grey cells yes, it is very likely. That, it is the affair of the doctor. For me I have different work to perform. I have the innocent to think of, not the guilty the victim, not the criminal. It is you I am considering, Mademoiselle, not your unknown assailant. You are young and beautiful, and the sun shines and the world is pleasant, and there is life and love ahead of you. It is all that of which I think, Mademoiselle.

“Lonely? What a funny idea. I’m not down here much, you know. I’m usually in  London.Relations are too devastating as a rule. They fuss and interfere. It’s much more fun to be on one’s own.”