Make No Mistake About It, The Detective-story

That There Is A Secret Itself Is A Secret.

There Were Crimson Roses On The Bench; They Looked Like Splashes Of Blood.

God Was Executed By People Painfully Like Us, In A Society Very Similar To Our Own ... By A Corrupt Church, A Timid Politician, And A Fickle Proletariat Led By Professional Agitators.

I Know What You're Thinking - That Anybody With Proper Sensitive Feelings Would Rather Scrub Floors For A Living. But I Should Scrub Floors Very Badly, And I Write Detective Stories Rather Well. I Don't See Why Proper Feelings Should Prevent Me From Doing My Proper Job.

We Shall Know What Things Are Of Overmastering Importance When They Have Overmastered Us.