Ness Kingsley

“ Readin' all those books makes me wonder whether
anyone ever dies natural."

" They don't," said William mysteriously. " Robert
says so. At least he says there's hundreds an' thousands
of murders what no one finds out. You see, you c'n
only find out a person's died nacheral by cuttin' 'em
up an' they've not got time to cut everyone up what
dies. They've simply not got the time. They do
it like what they do with our desks at school. They
jus' open one sometimes to see if it's all right. They've
not got time to open 'em all every day. An' same as
every time they do open a desk they find it untidy, jus'
in the same way whenever they do cut anyone dead
up they find he's been poisoned. Practically always.
Robert says so. He says that the amount of people
who poison people who aren't cut up and don't get
found out mus' be enormous. Jus' think of it. People
pois'nin' people all over the place an' no one findin' out.

If I was a policeman I'd cut everyone dead up.
But they aren't any use, policemen aren't. Why, in
all those books I've read there hasn't been a single
policeman that was any good at all. They simply
don't know what to do when anyone murders anyone.
Why, you remember in ' The Mystery of the Yellow
Windows,' the policemen were s' posed to have searched
the room for clues an' they di'n't notice the cigarette
end what the murd'rer had left in the fender and what
had the address of the people what made it on it an'
what was a sort they made special for him. Well,
that shows you what the policemen are, dun't it ? I
mean, they look very swanky in their hats an' buttons
an' all that, but when it comes to a murder or cuttin'
dead people up or findin' out murd'rers, they aren't
any good at all. Why, in all those myst'ry tales we've
read, it's not been the police that found the murd'rers
at all. It's been ordinary people same as you an' me
jus' usin' common sense an' pickin' up cigarette ends
an' such-like. . . . Tell you what it is," he said, warm-
ing to his theme, " policemen have gotter be stupid
'cause of their clothes. I mean, all the policemen's
clothes are made so big that they've gotter be very
big men to fit 'em an' big men are always stupid 'cause
of their strength all goin' to their bodies 'stead of their
brains. That stands to reason, dun't it ? ”
― Richmal Crompton

“ Let's be detectives when we grow up," suggested Douglas.

" No," said William. " It's more fun bein' the man that comes along an' finds out all about it when the detectives have stopped tryin'. I'm goin to be one of that sort. I'm goin' to go on readin' myst'ry tales all the time from now till I'm grown up an' then I bet there won't be any way of killin' folks that I won't know all about so I'll be able to catch all the murd'rers there are an' I bet I'll be famous an' they'll put up a stachoo to me when I'm dead."

" I bet they won't," said Ginger, irritated by William's egotism. " You'll prob'ly get murdered yourself before you've tound out anythin' at all an' then Douglas an' Henry an' me' 11 find out who did it an' get famous.”
― Richmal Crompton, William

“I am convinced that poets are toddlers in a cathedral, slobbering on wooden blocks and piling them up in the light of the stained glass. We can hardly make anything beautiful that wasn’t beautiful in the first place. We aren’t writers, but gleeful rearrangers of words whose meanings we can’t begin to know. When we manage to make something pretty, it’s only so because we are ourselves a flourish on a greater canvas. That means there’s no end to the discovery. We may crawl around the cathedral floor for ages before we grow up enough to reach the doorknob and walk outside into a garden of delights. Beyond that, the city, then the rolling hills, then the sea. And when the world of every cell has been limned and painted and sung, we lie back on the grass, satisfied that our work is done. Then, of course, the sun sets and we see above us the dark dome of glittering stars.

On and on it goes, all the way to the lightless borderlands of time and space, which we come to discover in some future age are but the beginnings or endings of a single word spoken from the mouth of God. Some nights, while I traipse down the hill, I imagine that word isn’t a word at all, but a burst of laughter.”
― Andrew Peterson

“I don't see why you two can't get along."
"It is a personality issue," Rathenridge muttered.
Dentin looked at him. No emotion, no reaction, simply bland observation. "Yours?”
― Rachel Rossano, Duty