Richard BurtonQuotes

Diana: It's good to see you, Marcellus.

Marcellus Gallio: It's ah - good to see you - again.

Diana: Then you do remember me?

Marcellus Gallio: Ah - yes, of course. Let me see now, it was the - was the...

Diana: And your promise, have you forgotten that too?

Marcellus Gallio: What promise?

Diana: To marry me.

Marcellus Gallio: Was I drunk?

Diana: That's not very flattering, Marcellus.

Marcellus Gallio: Oh, I - I mean, if you'd tell me when I was supposed to have said this - the circumstances...

Diana: Oh, I remember them perfectly. I'd cut my finger, and I cried. And then you took the dagger and cut your own finger to show that it didn't really hurt, and then you kissed me, and I stopped crying - and then you promised to marry me when we grew up.

Marcellus Gallio: Dianna! Where have your freckles gone?

Diana: I lost them.

Marcellus Gallio: Oh, I loved every one of them.

Diana: Then I'm sorry I lost them.

Emperor Tiberius: Tell me, what was your impression of Pilate?

Marcellus Gallio: It's not my place to...

Emperor Tiberius: I'm asking you. Did you find him capable?

Marcellus Gallio: Yes sire, he's considered a good administrator.

Emperor Tiberius: Stern, as befits a Roman governor?

Marcellus Gallio: I'm sure of that, sire.

Emperor Tiberius: Just?

Marcellus Gallio: I - I can't say.

Emperor Tiberius: Why not? Surely you can give me some sort of an answer? Tell me, tribune - what happened out there

Marcellus Gallio: [[w:Rome|Rome; [w:Tiberius|Tiberius; [w:Babylon|Babylon; [w:frankincense|frankincense; [w:Venus (mythology)|make love; [w:Mars (mythology)|war; [w:Diana (mythology)|Huntresses; [w:Bacchus (mythology)|drunkards; [w:Caligula|Caligula; [w:gladiator|gladiators] (first lines) ], Master of the Earth, in the 18th year of the Emperor ]. Our legions stand guard on the boundaries of civilization, from the foggy coasts of northern seas to the ancient rivers of ], the finest fighting machines in history. The people of thirty lands send us tribute - their gold and silk, ivory and ], and their proudest sons to be our slaves. We have reached the point where there are more slaves in Rome than citizens. Some say that we are only looters of what others have created, that we create nothing ourselves. But we have made gods. Fine gods and goddesses. Who ]... and ]. ]... and ]. For the power lies not in their hands of marble, but in ours of flesh. We, the nobles of Rome, are free to live only for our own pleasure. Could any god offer us more? Today we traffic in human souls - the slave market is crowded because the old Emperor's heir and regent, the young ], is coming to buy ]. He probably will not be pleased to see me.

O'Brien: There are thought criminals who maintain that the resistance is not real. Believe me, Winston, it is very real. Perhaps you are not familiar with how it operates.

Winston Smith: I am attentive to the news.

O'Brien: [[w:Emmanuel Goldstein|Goldstein] Indeed. Then perhaps you imagine a huge network of conspirators prepared to commit any atrocity to weaken and demoralise the order of our society. The reality is infinitely more subtle. If ] himself fell into the hands of the Thought Police, he could not give them a list of his agents. Such a list does not exist. They are not an organisation in the sense we know. Nothing holds it together but an idea. Individually, they cheat, forge, blackmail, corrupt children, spread disease and prostitution, in the name of spreading knowledge from generation to generation, until... in a thousand years...

Winston Smith: I know you'll fail. Something in this world... some spirit you will never overcome...

O'Brien: What is it, this principle?

Winston Smith: I don't know. The spirit of man.

O'Brien: And do you consider yourself a man?

Winston Smith: Yes.

O'Brien: If you're a man, Winston, you're the last man. Your kind is extinct. We are the inheritors. Do you realise that you are alone? You are outside history. You unexist. Get up.

O'Brien: Look at you. You're rotting away.

O'Brien: That is the last man. If you are human, that is humanity.

O'Brien: Tell me, Winston - and remember, no lies - what are your feelings towards Big Brother?

Winston Smith: I hate him.

O'Brien: You must love him. It is not enough to obey him. You must love him.

O'Brien: The world we are preparing, Winston, is of constant victory and constant triumph. You are beginning to accept it, you'll soon welcome it, and, finally, become a part of it.

O'Brien: [[w:Room 101|room 101] You once asked me, Winston, what was in ]. I told you that you knew already. Everyone knows. The thing that is in room 101... is the worst thing in the world.

O'Brien: Obedience is not enough. Power is inflicting pain and humiliation; otherwise, you cannot be sure. Power is tearing human minds apart, and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing. Power is not a means, it is an end. In our world, there will only be triumph and self-abasement. Everything else, we shall destroy. The past is forbidden. Why? Because when we can cut man from his own past, then we can cut him from his family, his children, other men. There is no loyalty, except loyalty to the Party. There is no love, except love of Big Brother. All competing pleasures, we will destroy. If you want a vision of the future, Winston, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever.

O'Brien: We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.

Nick: Here we are.

Honey: Hip, hop! Hip, hop! Hip, hop! Hip, hop!

Nick: Are you a bunny, Honey?

Honey: [giggles] Bunny Honey!

George: Well, now, how's the bunny?

Honey: [giggles] Bunny funny!

George: Bunny funny. Good for bunny!

Martha: Come on, George!

George: Honey, funny bunny.

Martha: Truth and illusion, George; you don't know the difference.

George: No, but we must carry on as though we did.

Martha: Amen.

Martha: I looked at you tonight and you weren't there! Finally snapped! And– and I'm gonna howl it out! And I'm not gonna give a damn what I do, and I'm gonna make the biggest goddamn explosion you've ever heard!

George: You try and I'll beat you at your own game.

Martha: Is that a threat, George, huh?

George: That's a threat, Martha.

Martha: You're gonna get it, baby.

George: Be careful, Martha. I'll rip you to pieces.

Martha: You're not man enough. You haven't the guts!

George: Total war?

Martha: Total!

George: You're a monster. You are.

Martha: I'm loud, and I'm vulgar, and I wear the pants in the house because somebody's got to… but I am not a monster! I'm NOT!

George: You're a spoiled, self-indulgent, willful, dirty-minded, liquor-ridden…

Martha: [Crap!] It went SNAP! I-I-I'm not gonna try to get through to you anymore. There was a second back there — yeah, there was a second, just a second — when I could have gotten through to you, when maybe we could have cut through all this, this CRAP! But it's past, and I'm not gonna try.

Nick: That was cruel and vicious…

George: Hmm, she'll get over it.

Nick: … and damaging…

George: She'll recover.

Nick: … damaging to me!

George: To you?

Nick: To me!

George: To you?

Nick: YES!

George: Oh-ho-ho-ho, beautiful! My god, you gotta have a swine to show you where the truffles are!

George: All right! The dancing's over!

Honey: [applauding] Violence! Violence! Oo-hoo!

Honey: They're dancing like they danced before.

George: It's a familiar dance, Monkey Nipples. They both know it.

Honey: [drunkenly] I don't know what you mean.

Martha: [sighs] I like the way you move.

Nick: I like the way you move, too.

George: [to Honey] They like the way they move.

Honey: [drunkenly] That's nice.

Martha: Well, aren't you going to apologize?

George: Wasn't my fault — the road should've been straight.

Martha: Not that! For making her throw up.

George: I did not make her throw up.

Martha: You most certainly did.

George: I did not.

Honey: [still drunk] No, now, no…

Martha: Well, who do you think did? Sexy, back there? You think he made his own wife sick?

George: Well, you make me sick.

Martha: That's different.

George: Take the trouble to construct a civilization, to build a society based on the principles of, uh… of principle.

Nick: Honey!

George: You make government and art and realize that they are, must be, both the same. You bring things to the saddest of all points, to the point where there is something to lose. Then, all at once, through all the music, through all the sensible sounds of men building, attempting, comes the Dies Irae. And what is it? What does the trumpet sound? "Up yours".

Martha: Hey!

George: Hark! Forest sounds.

Nick: Hmm?

George: Animal noises.

Martha: Heyyyy!

George: All I said was that our son, the apple of our three eyes — Martha being a cyclops — our son is a beanbag, and you get testy!

Nick: I'm sorry, it's late! I'm tired. I've been drinking since nine o'clock, my wife is vomiting… there's been a lot of screaming going on around here!

George: So you get testy, naturally! Don't worry about it! Anybody who comes here ends up getting testy; it's expected! Don't be upset!

Nick: I'm not upset.

George: You're testy.

Nick: Yes.

Martha: [chuckles] George is bogged down in the history department. He's an old bog in the history department. That's what George is. A bog. A fen. A GD swamp!

Martha: [to George] A swamp! Hey, swamp! Hey swampy!

George: Yes, Martha? Can I get you something?

Martha: Ah… well, sure! You can, um, light my cigarette, if you're of a mind to.

George: [Nick's] No. There are limits. I mean, a man can put up with only so much without he descends a rung or two on the, uh, old evolutionary ladder, which is up your line. Now, I will, uh, hold your hand when it's dark and you're afraid of the boogeyman, and I will tote your gin bottles out after midnight so no one can see, but I will not light your cigarette. And that, as they say, is that.

Martha: Jesus!

George: I'm very impressed.

Martha: You're damn right!

George: I said I was impressed. I'm beside myself with jealousy. What do you want me to do, throw up?

Nick: [to Honey] We'll go in a little while.

George: Oh no! No, you mustn't! Martha is changing, and Martha is not changing for me! Martha hasn't changed for me in years! If Martha is changing, that means we're going to be here for days. You're being accorded an honor. You mustn't forget that Martha is the daughter of our beloved boss. She is his right… arm, heh heh. I was going to use another word, but we'll leave that sort of talk to Martha.

Martha: What sort of talk?

Nick: Well, now.

George: Why, Martha! Your Sunday chapel dress!

George: What made you decide to be a teacher?

Nick: Well, the same things that motivated you, I imagine.

George: Oh? What were they?

Nick: Pardon?

George: I said, what were they? What were the things that motivated me?

Nick: Well, I'm sure I don't know.

George: You just finished saying that the things that motivated you were the same things that motivated me.

Nick: I said I imagined they were.

George: Oh, did you?

George: Let me tell you a secret, baby — there are easier things in this world, if you, uh… happen to be teaching at a university, there are easier things than being married to the daughter of the president of that university. There are easier things in this world.

Martha: It should be an extraordinary opportunity. For some men, it would be the chance of a lifetime.

George: There are, believe me, easier things in this world.

Martha: Some men would give their right arm for the chance!

George: Alas, Martha, in reality, it works out that the sacrifice is of a somewhat more private portion of the anatomy.

Martha: [laughs uproariously, then settles] I bust a gut! George didn't think it was funny at all.

George: Martha thinks that unless you, as she demurely puts it, "bust a gut", you're not amused, you know. Unless you're… carrying on like a hyena, you're not having any fun.

Martha: Fix the kids a drink, George. What would you like to drink, kid– kid.

Nick: Honey? what would you like?

Honey: Ohhhh, I don't know, dear, a little brandy maybe. "Never mix, never worry!

George: Brandy? Just brandy? Simple, simple…

George: What about you, em… em… em…

Nick: Bourbon on the rocks, if you don't mind.

George: Mind? I don't mind. I don't think I mind. Martha? Rubbing alcohol for you?

Martha: Sure! "Never mix, never worry!

Nick: Ah, who, ah… who did the painting?

Martha: That? Oh, that's by…

George: [laughs stiffly] … some Greek with a moustache Martha attacked one night in a, in a…

Martha: Oh-ho, you pig.

George: Oink, oink.

Martha: Fix me another drink… lover.

George: My God, you can swill it down, can't you?

Martha: Well, I'm thirsty.

George: Oh, Jesus.

Martha: Look, sweetheart, I can drink you under any goddamn table you want, so don't worry about me.

George: I gave you the prize years ago, Martha. There isn't an abomination award going that you haven't won.

Martha: I swear to God George, if you even existed I'd divorce you.

Martha: You make me puke!

George: [That] wasn't a very nice thing to say, Martha.

Martha: That wasn't what?!

George: A very nice thing to say.

Martha: Oh, I like your anger. I think that's what I like about you most. Your anger.

Martha: [To "Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf"] Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf / Virginia Woolf, Virginia Woolf / Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf…

Martha: What's the matter? Didn't ya think that was funny? I thought it was a scream.

Martha: You laughed your head off when you heard it at the party.

George: I smiled. I didn't laugh my head off.

Martha: You laughed your goddamn head off.

Martha: [pauses] What a dump. Hey, w-what's that from? "What a dump!

George: How would I know?

Martha: Oh, come on, what's it from? You know!

George: Martha…

Martha: What's it from, for chrissake?!

George: What's what from?

Martha: I just told you. I just did it. "What a dump!" Huh? What's that from?

George: I haven't the faintest idea.

Martha: Dumbbell.

George: Good. Better. Best. Bested.

George: Martha, in my mind, you are buried in cement right up to the neck. No, up to the nose — it's much quieter.

George: [talking to Nick about weight and fitness] Martha is 108… years old. She weighs somewhat more than that.

George: [Honey abruptly stands, looking ill.] Martha, will you show her where we keep the, uh, euphemism?

Martin Dysart: How can I? In an ultimate sense, I cannot know what I do in this place, but I do ultimate things, irreversible things and I, I stand in the dark with a blade in my hand, striking at heads, I need, more desperately than my children need me, a way of seeing in the dark; what way is this? what dark is this? I cannot call it "ordained of God" — I cannot go so far. I will however, pay it so much homage. There is now, in my mouth, this sharp chain. And it never comes out.

Martin Dysart: Why me? Why me? First, account for me.

Martin Dysart: Passion, you see, can be destroyed by a doctor. It cannot be created. You won't gallop anymore, Alan, the horses will be quite safe. You can save your money each week and change that scooter for a car. You'll spend glorious weekends grooming that. You'll pop round to the betting shops and put fifty pence on a nag, forgetting they ever meant anything more to you than bearers of little profits and little losses. You will, however, be without pain; almost completely without...pain.. and now... for me... it never stops... the voice of Equus, out of the cave.

Martin Dysart: Alright, I take it away, what then? He'd feel himself acceptable, what then? Do you think feelings like his can be simply re-attached, just like plasters stuck on other objects we select? I mean, look at him! My desire might be to make of this boy an ardent husband, a caring citizen, a worshipper of abstract and unifying God; my achievement, however, is more likely to make a ghost. I heal the rash on his body, I'll erase the welts cut into his mind by flying manes and when that's done I'll put him on a metal scooter and send him puttering off into the concrete world and he'll never touch hide again. Hopefully he'll feel nothing at his fork but approved flesh, I doubt, however, with much passion!

Martin Dysart: Know that, when Equus leaves — if he leaves at all — it will be with your intestines in his teeth — and I don't stock replacements.

Martin Dysart: All right! The normal is the good smile in a child's eyes. There's also the dead stare in a million adults. It both sustains and kills, like a god. It is the ordinary made beautiful, it is also the average made lethal. Normal is the indispensable murderous God of health and I am his priest.

Martin Dysart: Worship all you can see, and more will appear.

Martin Dysart: That's what his stare has been saying to me all this time: "At least I galloped — when did you?

Martin Dysart: Forgive me. I'm not making much sense. Let me start properly, in order.

Martin Dysart: The thing is, I'm wearing that horse's head myself, all reined up in old language and old assumptions, straining to jump clean hoofed onto a new track of being that only I suspect is there. I can't see it, because my educated, average head is being held at the wrong angle. I can't jump, because the bit forbids it and my own basic force - my horsepower, if you like - is too little. The only thing I know for sure is this: A horse's head is finally unknowable to me. Yet I handle childrens heads, which I presume to be more complicated, at least in the area of my chief concern. In a way, it has nothing to do with this boy - the doubts have been there for years, piling up steadily in this dreary place - it's the extremity of this case that's made them active. I know extremity is the point. All the same, whatever the reasons, these doubts are not just vaguely worrying, but intolerable.

Martin Dysart: Afterwards, he says, they always embrace. The animal digs his sweaty brow into his cheek and they stand in the dark for an hour, like a necking couple. And of all nonsensical things, I keep thinking about the horse - not the boy, the horse - and what he might be trying to do. I keep seeing the huge head, kissing him with its chained mouth nudging through the metal, some desire absolutely irrelevant of filling its belly or propagating its own kind. What desire could this be? Not to stay a horse any longer? Not to remain reined up forever in those particular genetic strings? Is it possible, at moments we can't imagine, a horse can add its sufferings together, the non-stop jerks and jabs that are its daily life, and turn them into grief? What use is grief to a horse? You see, I'm lost. What use, I should be asking, are questions like these to an overworked psychiatrist in a provincial hospital? They're worse than useless - they are, in fact, subversive.