Josephine Tey Quotes

The truth of anything at all doesn't lie in someone's account of it. It lies in all the small facts of the time. An advertisement in a paper, the sale of a house, the price of a ring.

Horse sense is the instinct that keeps horses from betting on men.

It is the utterly destructive quality. When you say vanity, you are thinking of the kind that admires itself in mirrors and buys things to deck itself out in. But that is merely personal conceit. Real vanity is something quite different. A matter not of person but of personality. Vanity says, "I must have this because I am me." It is a frightening thing because it is incurable.

Nothing great ever came out of common sense.

Most people's first books are their best anyways. It's the one they wanted most to write.

It was pleasant to talk shop again; to use that elliptical, allusive speech that one uses only with another of one's trade.

The worst of pushing horrible things down into one's subconscious is that when they pop up again they are as fresh as if they had been in a refrigerator. You haven't allowed time to get at them to-to mould them over a little.

One would expect boredom to be a great yawning emotion, but it isn't, of course. It's a small niggling thing.

A man may own a ship, but unless he is captain of a crew he goes where the ship goes.

Weak people can be very stubborn.

The trouble with you, dear, is that you think an angel of the Lord as a creature with wings, whereas he is probably a scruffy little man with a bowler hat.

You can't have a tin can tied to your tail and go through life pretending it isn't there.

Nothing puts things in perspective as quickly as a mountain.

It's an odd thing but when you tell someone the true facts of a mythical tale they are indignant not with the teller but with you. They don't want to have their ideas upset. It rouses some vague uneasiness in them, I think, and they resent it. So they reject it and refuse to think about it. If they were merely indifferent it would be natural and understandable. But it is much stronger than that, much more positive. They are annoyed. Very odd, isn't it.

That was the way with grief: it left you alone for months together until you thought that you were cured, and then without warning it blotted out the sunlight.

He knew by heart every last minute crack on its surface. He had made maps of the ceiling and gone exploring on them; rivers, islands, and continents. He had made guessing games of it and discovered hidden objects; faces, birds, and fishes. He made mathematical calculations of it and rediscovered his childhood; theorems, angles, and triangles. There was practically nothing else he could do but look at it. He hated the sight of it.

If you think about the unthinkable long enough it becomes quite reasonable.

Truth is often terribly thin, don't you think?

Letterwriting is the natural outlet of the "odds." The busy-bodies, the idle, the perverted, the cranks, the feel-it-my-duties ... Also the plain depraved. They all write letters. It's their safe outlet, you see. They can be as interfering, as long-winded, as obscene, as pompous, as one-idea'd, as they like on paper, and no one can kick them for it. So they write. My God, how they write!

Riches ... don't consist in having things, but in not having to do something you don't want to do. ... Riches is being able to thumb your nose.

Truth isn’t in accounts but in account-books.

In hospitals there is no time off for good behavior.

Nothing in this world came out of satisfaction. Except the human race.

It is not possible to love and be wise.

Lack of education is an extraordinary handicap when one is being offensive.

After three days without one, the desire to read a newspaper vanished. And really, one was happier without.

I expect this is what death is like when you meet it. Sort of wildly unfair but inevitable.

A thousand people drowned in floods in China are news: a solitary child drowned in a pond is tragedy.

Fasting was good for the imagination but bad for logic.

There were people whose only interest in life was writing letters. To the newspapers, to authors, to strangers, to City Councils, to the police. It did not much matter to whom; the satisfaction of writing seemed to be all.