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October 29 - November 12, 2020
What are you moping about up there for like a boiled owl?
there is nothing more amazing than the extraordinary sanity of the insane!
. One felt that with him—that he had force—driving power—but it had all turned sour—bitter—there was no humanity left. . . .”
The man obviously wanted to tell him something—and as obviously had lost the art of simple narration. Words had become to him a means of obscuring facts—not of revealing them. He was an adept in the art of the useful phrase—that is to say the phrase that falls soothingly on the ear and is quite empty of meaning.
“We are talking of the effects of drug taking. Of the slow death of the mind and spirit—the destroying of all that is true and good in a human being.”
“Is he then an unhappy man?” Poirot said: “So unhappy that he has forgotten what happiness means. So unhappy that he does not know he is unhappy.” The nun said softly: “Ah, a rich man. . . .”
Countess Rossakoff might not uncharitably have been described as a ruin. But she was at least a spectacular ruin.
