When you have been killed as many times as I have, you get used to it.

I writhe when I see myself on the screen. I'm such a dreadfully clumsy hulking image. I say to myself, Why doesn't he get off? Why doesn't he get off? I mean, I look like such an idiot. Some fat awkward thing dredged up from some third-rate drama company. I must stop thinking about it, otherwise I shan't be able to go on working.

It won't be easy, that is why I have always failed where others have succeeded.

If you ask me to play myself, I will not know what to do. I do not know who or what I am.

Is there anybody hiding there in the dark?

Conversation like television set on honeymoon... unnecessary.

I am here to fix the problem with yer pheaun.

There is no me. I do not exist. There used to be a me but I had it surgically removed.

You'll catch your death of cold. Clouseau: Yes, yes I probably will but . . . its all part of life's rich pageantry, you kneau.

Relax, I'll get it. (said to Kato after Clouseau knocks him unconscious)

François: Do you know what kind of a bomb it was? Clouseau: Yes, the exploding kind.

If I can't really find a way to live with myself, I can't expect anyone else to live with me.

Clouseau: Does yer dewg bite? Inn Keeper: No Clouseau: Nice Doggy (bends down to pet a dachshund - it snarls and bites him) I thought you said yer dewg did not bite! Inn Keeper: Zat . . . iz not my dog!

Facts - behind them lies the whole fabric of deductive truth.