Faira

“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!”
― Agatha Christie, Five Little Pigs

“People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.”
― Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale

“Aren't we all pawns in the hands of time, the greatest player of them all?”
― Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, The Palace of Illusions

“Who are you? You don't belong to the police?'
'I am better than the police,' said Poirot. He said it without conscious arrogance. It was, to him, a simple statement of fact.”
― Agatha Christie, The A.B.C. Murders