Have you tried Hare Krishna?
Eat the fish, bitch!
(sorry to hit the same movie again so soon.)
I ain’t eat nothin’ that ain’t got sense enough to disregard its own feces.
Create enough hunger and everyone becomes a criminal.
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster. To me, being a gangster was better than being president of the United States. Even before I went to the cabstand for an after-school job, I knew I wanted to be a part of them. It was there that I knew I belonged. To me, it meant being somebody in a neighborhood full of nobodies. They weren’t like anybody else. They did whatever they wanted. They parked in front of hydrants and never got a ticket. When they played cards all night, nobody ever called the cops.
Soap, is there something we should know about you?
My oath of celibacy is on record, Captain.
Pick your clothes up. You’re due down at the Foreign Office.
I know there are women, like my best friends, who would have gotten out of there the minute their boyfriend gave them a gun to hide. But I didn’t. I gotta admit the truth, it turned me on.
Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.
You’re gonna love it. Chef’s been cooking his specialty.
I charge a lot for anything black. Grapes, olives, blackcurrants. People like to remind themselves of death; eating black food is like consuming death. Like saying, “Death, I’m eating you!”
You know, not too long ago I couldn’t do that. Could barely take a breath without coughing up a pint of blood. Tuberculosis. That along with fierce headaches… depression… suicidal ambition. I was in pretty horrible shape. In fact I was on my way to a sanatorium to convalesce when a native scout told me a curious story. Man eats the flesh of another, he takes the other man’s strength, absorbs his spirit. Well. Naturally I just had to try. Consequently I ate the scout first and you know he was absolutely right. I grew stronger. Tuberculosis? Vanished. As did the headaches and the black thoughts. I returned that spring happy. And healthy. And virile…
It might be a tumor.
Then last week, as it must to all men, death came to Charles Foster Kane
Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.
Utter nonsense. If you hear a marching band, is your soul exalted? No, you march. If you hear a waltz, you dance. If you hear a mass, you take communion. It is the power of music to carry one directly into the mental state of the composer. The listener has no choice. It is like hypnotism. So, now… What was in my mind when I wrote this? Hmm? A man is trying to reach his lover. His carriage has broken down in the rain. The wheels stuck in the mud. She will only wait so long. This… is the sound of his agitation. “This is how it is… ,” the music is saying. “Not how you are used to being. Not how you are used to thinking. But like this.”
That’s it! The music from my dream.
You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.
I wish I were…big.