Murders On The Orient Express Quotes

The impossible could not have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances.

If you confront anyone who has lied with the truth, he will usually admit it - often out of sheer surprise. It is only necessary to guess right to produce your effect.

But I know human nature, my friend, and I tell you that, suddenly confronted with the possibility of being tried for murder, the most innocent person will lose his head and do the most absurd things.

What's wrong with my proposition?" Poirot rose. "If you will forgive me for being personal-I do not like your face, M. Ratchett.

At the small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen. It was an ugliness of distinction - it fascinated rather than repelled.

I like to see an angry Englishman," said Poirot. "They are very amusing. The more emotional they feel the less command they have of language.

The body—the cage—is everything of the most respectable—but through the bars, the wild animal looks out.

I am not one to rely upon the expert procedure. It is the psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the cigarette ash.

You've a pretty good nerve," said Ratchett. "Will twenty thousand dollars tempt you?" It will not." If you're holding out for more, you won't get it. I know what a thing's worth to me." I, also M. Ratchett." What's wrong with my proposition?" Poirot rose. "If you will forgive me for being personal - I do not like your face, M. Ratchett," he said.

Some of us, in the words of the divine Greta Garbo, want to be alone.

The impossible cannot have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances.

As you yourself have said, what other explanation can there be?' Poirot stared straight ahead of him. 'That is what I ask myself,' he said. 'That is what I never cease to ask myself.

How fast you go. You arrive at a conclusion much sooner than I would permit myself to do.

I have learned to save myself useless emotion.

You are the patient one, Mademoiselle,' said Poirot to Miss Debenham. She shrugged her shoulders slightly. 'What else can one do?' You are a philosopher, Mademoiselle.' That implies a detached attitude. I think my attitude is more selfish. I have learned to save myself useless emotion.

All around us are people, of all classes, of all nationalities, of all ages. For three days these people, these strangers to one another, are brought together. They sleep and eat under one roof, they cannot get away from each other. At the end of three days they part, they go their several ways, never, perhaps, to see each other again.

The happiness of one man and one woman is the greatest thing in all the world.

What's wrong with my proposition?" Poirot rose. "If you will forgive me for being personal - I do not like your face.

I believe, Messieurs, in loyalty---to one's friends and one's family and one's caste.

And yet," said Poirot, "suppose an accident-" "Ah, no, my friend-" "From your point of view it would be regrettable, I agree. But nevertheless let us just for one moment suppose it. Then, perhaps, all these here are linked together - by death.

You belong to the League of Nations?’ ‘I belong to the world, Madame,’ said Poirot dramatically.

Because, you see, if the man were an invention—a fabrication—how much easier to make him disappear!

Look at what’s happening! No one on these calls wants to own any of this, because it’s so obviously bad! It’s like a reverse Murder on the Orient Express. Everyone wants it dead, nobody wants to stab it!

Then there are some minor points that strike me as suggestive - for instance, the position of Mrs. Hubbard's sponge bag, the name of Mrs. Armstrong's mother, the detective methods of Mr. Hardman, the suggestion of Mr. MacQueen that Ratchett himself destroyed the charred note we found, Princess Dragomiroff's Christian name, and a grease spot on a Hungarian passport.

C’est une femme,” said the chef de train again. “Women are like that. When they are enraged they have great strength.” He nodded so sagely that everyone suspected a personal experience of his own.

He was at the stage of a meal when one becomes philosophic.

A ridiculous-looking little man. The sort of little man one could never take seriously.

Vi pripadate Ligi naroda? -Ja pripadam cijelom svijetu, madame, reče Poirot dramatično.

Hercule Poirot addressed himself to the task of keeping his moustaches out of the soup.

If you will forgive me for being personal—I do not like your face, M. Ratchett,

I had always wanted to go on the Orient Express, but that I’d sort of consider it a wasted opportunity if a murder didn’t happen. It’s not that I’m particularly bloodthirsty, it’s just that I have standards

If you wish to catch a rabbit you put a ferret into the hole, and if the rabbit is there he runs.

It is often by a trivial, even an anecdotal decision, that we direct our activities into a certain channel, and thus determine which of the potential expressions of our individuality become manifest. Usually we know nothing of the ultimate orientation or of the outlet toward which we travel, and the stream sweeps us to a formula of life from which there is no returning. Every decision is like a murder, and our march forward is over the stillborn bodies of all our possible selves that will never be.

If you will forgive me for being personal - I do not like your face

I suppose I saw photos of him in the papers, but I wouldn’t recognize my own mother when a press photographer had done with her.

Well, you can't go about having blood feuds and stabbing each other like Crosicans or the Mafia," said the Colonel. "Say what you like, trial by jury is a sound system

In fact,' said Poirot, 'she stabbed him in the dark, not realising that he was dead already, but somehow deduced that he had a watch in his pyjama pocket, took it out, put back the hands blindly and gave it the requisite dent.

Women are like that. When they are enraged they have great strength.

Coffee, then, Madame. You need some stimulant.

He chews the gum which I believe is not done in good circles.

Is no one incapable of murder?

At a small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen. It was an ugliness of distinction—it fascinated rather than repelled.

I’ll break every bone in your damned body, you dirty little whippersnapper,” he said.

Are you really a detective, then?” “At your service, Madame.” “I thought there were no detectives on the train when it passed through Yugo-Slavia—not until one got to Italy.” “I am not a Yugo-Slavian detective, Madame. I am an international detective.” “You belong to the League of Nations?” “I belong to the world, Madame,” said Poirot dramatically.

En voiture, Monsieur,’ said the Wagon Lit conductor.

She was, he judged, the kind of young woman who could take care of herself with perfect ease wherever she went. She had poise and efficiency.

The murderer is with us—on the train now….

You console me a little, but only a little,’ said Poirot.

If you will forgive me for being personal—I do not like your face, M. Ratchett,’ Poirot said.

Imposibilul nu poate sa se fi intamplat, ca atare imposibilul trebuie sa fie posibil, in ciuda aparentelor.

Précisément! The body—the cage—is everything of the most respectable—but through the bars, the wild animal looks out.

Just exactly what’s up on this train? It seems bughouse to me.

The other two waited respectfully while M. Bouc struggled in mental agony.

To begin with, you must realize that the threatening letters were in the nature of a blind. They might have been lifted bodily out of an indifferently written American crime novel.

In the words of a best seller, ‘You’ve nothing on me.

I don’t feel as though I’ve got the heart to eat anything,” and then partook of everything offered her,

The little man removed his hat. What an egg-shaped head he had.

There is much evil in the world.

You are, I think, a little bit contemptuous of the way I prosecute my inquiries," he said with a twinkle.

an air of infinite reluctance M. Poirot climbed aboard the train. The conductor climbed after him.

You are a philosopher mademoiselle. This implies a detached attitude. I think my attitude is more selfish. I have learned to save myself from useless emotion.

Poirot's eyes opened. "That is great ferocity," he said. "It is a woman," said the chef de train, speaking for the first time. "Depend upon it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that." Dr. Constantine screwed up his face thoughtfully. "She must have been a very strong woman," he said. "It is not my desire to speak technically-that is only confusing; but I can assure you that two of the blows were delivered with such forces as to drive them through hard belts of bone and muscle." "It was clearly not a scientific crime," said Poirot. "It was most unscientific," returned Dr. Constantine. "The blows seem to have been delivered haphazard and at random. Some have glanced off, doing hardly any damage. It is as though somebody had shut his eyes and then in a frenzy struck blindly again and again." "C'est une femme," said the chef de train again. "Women are like that. When they are enraged they have great strength." He nodded so sagely that everyone suspected a personal experience of his own.

At a small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen. It was an ugliness of distinction- it fascinated rather than repelled. She sat very upright. Round her neck was a collar of very large pearls which, improbable though it seemed, were real. Her hands were covered with rings. Her sable coat was pushed back on her shoulders. A very small and expensive black toque was hideously unbecoming to the yellow, toad-like face beneath it.

This must be Aleppo. Nothing to see, of course. Just a long, poor-lighted platform with loud furious altercations in Arabic going on somewhere. Two men below her window were talking French.

About Miss Debenham," he said rather awkwardly. "You can take it from me that she's all right. She's a pukka sahib. "What," asked Dr. Constantine with interest, "does a pukka sahib mean?" "It means," said Poirot, "that Miss Debenham's father and brothers were at the same kind of school as Colonel Arbuthnot was." "Oh!" said Dr. Constantine, disappointed. "Then it has nothing to do with the crime at all." "Exactly," said Poirot.

I told you there was nothing to it,” said Arbuthnot apologetically. “But you know what it is—early hours of the morning—everything very still—the thing had a sinister look—like a detective story. All nonsense, really.

Poirot said "you will find,M.le docteur,if you have much to do with cases of this kind,that they all resemble each other in one thing." "what is that?" I asked curiously "everyone concerned in them has something to hide

Say, gentlemen, this business is getting on my nerves. Murder and the snow and all, and nothing doing. Just hanging about and killing time. I’d like to get busy after someone or something.” “The true Western spirit of hustle,” said Poirot with a smile.

Does a man who commits suicide stab himself in ten—twelve—fifteen places?” he asked. Poirot’s eyes opened. “That is great ferocity,” he said. “It is a woman,” said the chef de train, speaking for the first time. “Depend upon it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that.

What's wrong with my proposition? Poirot rose. If you will forgive me for being personal - I do not like tour face, M. Ratchett, he said.

Madame, the most kind, the most amiable are not always the cleverest.

I don't like the idea of your being a governess at the beck and call of tyrannical mother's and their tiresome brats.

Ugly as sin, but she makes herself felt. You agree?

You will not give away a lady’s secret?

If Miss Debenham is innocent, why did she conceal that fact? Why did she tell me that she had never been in America?

Mr Ratchett wanted to see the world. He was hampered by knowing no languages. I acted more as a courier than a secretary”.

You’re apt to be done down if you speak nothing but good American.

M. Ratchett spoke no French.

Already, at twenty-three minutes to one, Ratchett was dead—” “And it was his murderer speaking!” finished M. Bouc impressively. Poirot

Agatha Christie used closed circles a lot—Murder on the Orient Express and And Then There Were None are two of the best-known examples, and—” “So that

I did not tell you that Helena Andrenyi was Mrs. Armstrong’s sister?

Belgian stranger—all

white moustache trembling

they had embraced each

Will you be so kind, Mademoiselle, as to write down your permanent address on this piece of paper?’ She complied. Her writing was clear and legible.

sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen.

The true Western spirit of hustle,” said Poirot with a smile.

Flog this man to death and throw him out in the rubbish heap!

He went out of the compartment and returned a few moments later with a small spirit stove and a pair of curling tongs. "I use them for the moustaches," he said, referring to the latter.

What,” asked Dr. Constantine with interest, “does a pukka sahib mean?” “It means,” said Poirot, “that Miss Debenham’s father and brothers were at the same kind of school as Colonel Arbuthnot.

And most conveniently she leaves her handkerchief behind!” said Poirot. “Exactly as it happens in the books and on the films—and to make things even easier for us it is marked with an initial.

Poirot: My name is Hercule Poirot, you know the name perhaps? American passenger: Why yes, it does seem kind of familiar, only I thought it was some kind of a woman’s dressmaker. Poirot: (exasperated sigh) It is incredible.

Ah, yes, I remember reading about that—shocking affair. I don’t think I actually ever came across the fellow, though, of course, I knew of him. Toby Armstrong. Nice fellow. Everybody liked him. He had a very distinguished career. Got the V.C.

You are the only patient one Mademoiselle?" Poirot "What can one do?" she said "You are a philosopher, Mademoiselle?" Poirot "That implies a detached attitude. I think my attitude is more selfish. I have learned to save myself useless emotion

I read a lot of Agatha Christie's that fall of 1938 - maybe all of them. The Hercule Poirots, the Miss Marples. Death on the Nile, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Murders .. on the links, .. at the vicarage, and.. on the Orient Express. I real them on the subway, at the deli, and in my bed alone. You can make what claims you will about the psychological nuance of Proust or the narrative scope of Tolstoy, but you can't argue that Mrs Christie fails to please. Her books are tremendously satisfying.

We could publish it as a very annoying Christmas present: something to give someone you didn’t like. We could have a competition—Tell us who killed Sir Magnus Pye and win a weekend on the Orient Express. Or we could keep looking and just hope that the wretched chapters would turn up.

We will commit them to memory. We will become them. We become authors. We become their books. I am sorry. I lost something there. Like a path I was walking that dead-ended, and now I am alone and lost in the forest, and I am here and I do not know where here is anymore. You must learn a Shakespeare play: I will think of you as Titus Andronicus. Or you, whoever you are, you could learn an Agatha Christie novel: you will be Murder on the Orient Express.

He was a man of between sixty and seventy. From a little distance he had the bland aspect of a philanthropist. His slightly bald head, his domed forehead, the smiling mouth that displayed a very white set of false teeth, all seemed to speak of a benevolent personality. Only the eyes belied this assumption. They were small, deep set and crafty. Not only that. As the man, making some remark to his young companion, glanced across the room, his gaze stopped on Poirot for a moment, and just for that second there was a strange malevolence, and unnatural tensity in the glance. Then

and endless inconvenience. But have I not heard you say often that to solve a case a man has only to lie back in his chair and think? Do that. Interview the passengers on the train, view the body, examine what clues there are and then—well, I have faith in you! I am assured that it is no idle boast of yours. Lie back and think—use (as I have heard you say so often) the little grey cells of the mind—and you will know!” He leaned forward, looking affectionately at his friend. “Your faith touches me, my friend,” said Poirot emotionally. “As you say, this cannot be a difficult case. I myself, last night—but we will not speak of that now. In truth, this problem intrigues me. I was reflecting, not half an hour ago, that many hours of boredom lay ahead whilst we are stuck here. And now—a problem lies ready to my hand.” “You accept then?” said M. Bouc eagerly. “C’est entendu. You place the matter in my hands.” “Good—we are all at your service.” “To begin with, I should like a plan of the Istanbul-Calais coach, with a note of the people who occupied the several compartments, and I should also like to see their passports and their tickets.” “Michel will get you those.” The Wagon Lit conductor left the compartment. “What other passengers are there on the train?” asked Poirot. “In this coach Dr. Constantine and I

The brutality of the regime knows no bounds. It does not remain neutral towards the people here; it creates beasts in its own image out of ordinary people who might have been neighbors instead. Even more dangerous was the fact that the fundamentals of humanity and the ABCs of life have been eviscerated from the hearts of many people here. State television destroys human compassion, the sort of fundamental empathy that is not contingent upon a political or even a cultural orientation, and through which one human being can relate to another. The al-Dunya channel stirs up hatred, broadcasts fake news and maligns any opposing viewpoint. I wasn't the only one subjected to internet attacks by the security services and the Ba'thists, even if the campaign against me may be fiercer because I come from the Alawite community and have a lot of family connections to them -- because I am a woman and it's supposedly easier to break me with rumors and character assassinations and insults. Some of my actress friends who expressed sympathy for the children of Dar'a and called for an end to the siege of the city were subjected to a campaign of character assassinations and called traitors, then forced to appear on state television in order to clarify their position. Friends who expressed sympathy for the families of the martyrs would get insulted, they would be called traitors and accused of being foreign spies. People became afraid to show even a little bit of sympathy for one another, going against the basic facts of life, the slightest element of what could be called the laws of human nature -- that is, if we indeed agree that sympathy is part of human nature in the first place. Moral and metaphorical murder is being carried out as part of a foolproof plan, idiotic but targeted, stupid yet leaving a mark on people's souls.